Asylum
by tasmat
Summary: As if being subjected to the games of a psychopath weren't enough. Jack's dashed off, Ianto's in the hospital, and Tosh is missing. Owen's gone on a sex-binge and Gwen won't leave her flat. Sequel to "The Torchwood Jigsaw." Go read that first!
1. 1

Welcome! The long-awaited sequel to "The Torchwood Jigsaw." Most of the references in this story will make NO SENSE WHATOSEVER if you do not go and read it first. So go do that! Maybe you'll get lucky and I'll have updated with another chapter here.

Special thanks go out to: **DeMarcos **for supplying all that info, and to **Angel of Nevermore** for her crackish ideas! Love you both!

And so, we begin.

* * *

"Excuse me, may I sit here?" 

Jack glanced up at the elderly woman, smiled, and relinquished his seat, allowing for a place where she could sit and set down her grocery bags.

"Thank you, young sir."

"My pleasure." He smiled, lying. He really would have liked to sit the whole ride, but he didn't have the energy to be a jerk. He despised public buses. They were awkward enough when not crowded; the Tuesday afternoon proved to be an active one, and it was tacit human understanding to give your seat to someone more burdened than yourself. Hence why Jack was now standing, barely able to reach a hand-hold through the thick of bodies. The bus lurched forward and he bumped into a short man who was _very_ thick through the middle.

"You wanna watch it, buddy?"

Jack only scowled at the man. He glanced behind him and saw he now stood near the stairs leading to the second exit of the bus, and decided the pole to one side of it was a good means of steadying himself. The two people he had to pass to get there were far more courteous than the other man. Jack sighed when he reached the greasy, semi-warm metal. A headache, slumbering for the past eight hours, hammered above his left ear with cruel force. He could really use some aspirin. Or water. Water would be nice.

The bus suddenly stopped, and Jack's other arm instinctively swung out to catch hold of something. He clipped someone behind him, and he couldn't help but cringe. No doubt they would yell at him, fuelling the pounding in his head.

An unfortunate pinging-ticking noise came from the back of the bus, and a few people grumbled loudly. Jack hazarded a look behind him and was relieved to see that whomever he had struck took no notice to the blow. He returned his attention to the bus driver, who was walking along the outside to inspect the slightly smoking area where the engine was housed. It wasn't a good sign that he immediately came back.

"Folks, looks like she's finally broken down. This is the kind of problem that won't be fixed quickly, so I strongly suggest you get off and catch the next bus. Should be at the stop a block up in twenty minutes. If you have any complaints, write to the DOT. No sense in yelling at me."

Jack took advantage of everyone grumbling a few more moments before moving and darted down the aisle, making sure his coat didn't flap open. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice his Webley. Granted, they probably wouldn't care. This was San Francisco, after all. It wasn't that uncommon to see someone with a gun, not with how much of the police force walked around in plainclothes. Jack almost smiled.

Almost.

He didn't particularly know _why_ he had come, without anyone else. It wasn't that he didn't ask them to come with him; he had even _invited_ Gwen and Owen. But neither had answered their phones, and Jack couldn't bring himself to disturb their solitary ways of coping. Jack had considered asking Ianto —injured leg or not, he would have at least talked to Jack— but he didn't think he could handle speaking to him. With any of them. He hadn't seen or heard from them in nearly six weeks. The one time the phone rang, he startled so badly he knocked his coffee-shop drink to the floor, spilling the steaming liquid everywhere. He didn't pick up either object needing attention; the coffee remained a pallid brown stain to the left of his desk, and the phone light still blinked innocuously to remind him of the message.

Jack had given them a whole week to respond before he left. It hadn't been easy, sitting around and waiting for calls he knew, in reality, would never come. A week of even less sleep, countless outings for coffee (he _really_ missed Ianto's brew) and food, one rogue weevil which had been waltzing benignly through a park until a blundering woman sprayed it. She, luckily —both for her and Jack; he _knew_ he wouldn't be able to fabricate an entire death and accompanying story on his own— escaped completely unscathed. Jack bought her a retconned drink and cursed the fact that he couldn't get drunk. Forgetting would be a thing very much appreciated at this point.

He had tried retconning himself, but that did about as much good for him as a month and a half of shitty coffee had. Jack still remembered the carcasses, the barbed wire trap, watching Ianto fall with a metal rod sticking out of his thigh. Extracting the blades from between his ribs, Gwen's huge, frightened eyes when the tank lid shut, Toshiko's seemingly large lack of sanity. No amount of alcohol, illicit and/or alien drugs, or self-mutilation could erase the guilt. Jack accused himself of warring consciences. Something told him it really wasn't his fault, that he simply needed to talk to them, make amends, regroup. Tell them it would be alright. Tell himself that.

But telling and convincing were two very different things.

Just like he told himself coming here alone was a good idea.

Which, he now saw, was one of the more stupid things he had done this decade.

The street the bus had broken down on was unfamiliar. And, as luck would have it, on the top of a hill. He'd have to walk the rest of the way, if his luck held out. Maybe he'd be hit by some careless driver, or mugged during the soon-to-come night. Both quite fun situations. Especially explaining to the emergency room staff why he could walk after witnesses saw his knees go the wrong direction, fly thirty feet in the air, and land right on his head. It would be a wonderful thing to deal with _sans_ retcon.

Jack stepped off the bus and raised a hand to shade his eyes. He didn't have sunglasses and he hadn't brought a bag. Oops. He fully expected this to be a very short trip. Reconnaissance, he told himself. Get more info and then coaxed Gwen out of her flat. . . . Owen, he didn't think he could coax out of _anything_ at this point; Ianto was relatively incapacitated, and Toshiko was just gone. If she was alive, she was either trapped or damaged enough to not be able to contact her colleagues.

The hill stretched behind the bus. Behind the broken behemoth was a line of cars, some honking impatiently. The bus driver walked off after Jack and was now waving at the traffic to go around. Jack glanced at the street signs. Lombard and Hyde. Priceless. The bus had shut down mere metres from the crookedest street in the world. He turned around and jogged across the street, heading towards the water that could easily be seen from this height. Perhaps he could get something to eat along the Warf.

His phone rang.

Jack halted in the middle of the street. A honking Mazda piloted by a cross Asian male restarted his numb legs. Jack reached into his coat pocket and flipped his phone open.

"This is Torchwood Four. They have us. We're trapped."

The line clicked off and left a dull tone in his ear.

"_What_?"

How . . . _Torchwood Four_?

"_What_?!"

x X x

A cool, not-quite-damp sensation. Surrounding him, blanketing him in something thin and uncomfortable. A space verging on too small and just wide enough, long corridor with poor lighting. He didn't feel alone, even though he couldn't see anyone else. Right behind him. Just outside his peripheral vision. But they were there. A small comfort.

Very small.

The floor fell from beneath him. Grainy down-slant rocketing him forward, toward something he _knew_ couldn't be right, couldn't be safe, couldn't keep him alive. Clothes flapped past him, unfilled by ghost faces with names attached to personalities linked to occupations and residences. Names he knew, places he knew, all things familiar and forgotten. How could those clothes fall faster than his insubstantial, solid self?

Bodies. Rotten, rotting, falling apart, bleeding, laughing, jeering sneering lurking taunting him with their lack of restraint to consciousness, to pain. They were free of fear, free of gravity, free of the weight that life presses upon the soul in the material world. The stench that drifted behind them snaked around Ianto's head and constricted his air, tightened his throat and loosened his control and where had everyone else gone? Their clothes floated ahead of them, surely they couldn't be far? Wouldn't they say something? Owen hadn't sworn in nearly never forever, what was his problem? Bitten his tongue? Died? Hm, that one naked male corpse with obscenely enlarged genitals bouncing by look an awful lot like him.

And Gwen? Why wasn't she mothering over Jack? Or Owen, Owen was dead after all. Didn't they need looking after? And what about all those bodies falling on him, crushing him, crushing his leg, driving metal claws further in and ripping shredding tearing _eating his leg_. It'd be gone before he could move them, move anything. There'd be nothing left, he'd only have one leg, but they wouldn't stop there they would keep going and there was nothing he could do. Nothing . . .

Nothing.

Ianto awoke from the dream with an abrupt jerk. A soft cry shoved its way through his lips. Despite having the pins in his leg and the rack surrounding it for the past eight weeks, Ianto was still not used to the tugging sensation. Pain? Not much. Not any, not when the morphine was in full dosage. Which was often. They couldn't have him moving, not if his leg were to heal properly. Which it would. Just lay there for seven or so weeks, get adjusted, eat, press the little square orange button to summon the nurse whenever he needed to relieve himself (one of the most degrading things he could think of) in a bedpan. Click the small white button to drip more cc's of morphine when he started to feel pricks of pain. Don't be shy about it, Mr. Jones, we want to see you walking again.

That was all fine and dandy, for the first few days. Gwen had stayed a whole week, then up and left, saying good-bye in the form of a card bought from the shop down two floors. After that, Ianto's only company was the nurses that came in periodically, and the doctors who tightened and loosened various parts of the rack keeping his bone in place. The whole process felt sterile, unreal; Ianto surmised it to the medication and lack of pain. The feeling of biting a novocaine-numbed cheek. For a solid hour, there's no pain. As sensation slowly returns, the dull ache seeps through the offended flesh and eventually you have to knock back ibuprofen.

After one lengthy conversation where he learned just how damaged he was, Ianto asked if he could be moved to Cardiff. He reasoned that, once he _was_ healed, it would be easier to set up a physical therapist, regular visits, and (Ianto almost snorted aloud at this one) get back in contact with his boss. Just settle some things before not seeing any of them for the . . ._ long_ months of recovery. The doctor said sure, once he had the rack off. She said it was better for Ianto that way; a two hour ambulance ride on a gurney with that thing would not be pleasant. Or feasible. No, Ianto needed to stay put. He nearly cried when the doctor left the room. No one but Gwen and Owen — possibly Jack — knew where he was, or what had happened to him. Gwen at least stayed for a few days, even if her departure was a bit abrupt.

Forsaken.

Even Gwen's caring seemed rushed, uncertain. Superficial. Ianto didn't blame her. At least, that's what he told himself. He believed it less and less with each scratchy, weary hour. Days of tedium he only vaguely kept track of. One nurse brought him a few paperbacks from downstairs, but they sat, abandoned and unopened, on the chair to the left of his bed. The chair that had remained vacant for the past month and a half. Not even the most sympathetic of the nurses would sit there; he always stood when he talked to Ianto. His earnest attempts at uplifting cheer only further made Ianto want to be alone. And made him miss everyone else even more. At this point, he'd even take Owen for company, however uncaring the medic could be.

Someone knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in."

A one Doctor Grant poked her head around the sandy wood. She was smiling. Ianto couldn't recall a time she _wasn't _smiling. Wait. Once. During that lengthy discussion about his condition. She hadn't smiled then. All serious, all information, all help. Ianto hadn't asked her many questions. She did. He avoided answering them, not caring when the awkward silence settled between them. They had all abandoned him. They didn't need him. Nothing mattered anymore.

Alone.

Again.

"Hello. Any pain today?"

Ianto waved the little morphine-release button. "No."

"That's good."

Ianto sighed. "Yeah."

Katrina Grant considered herself a kind person. She knew how to explain things to patients so they would understand, she knew how to calm and reassure, and she knew what a person who needed psychotherapy looked like. Although his skill in composure impressed her, she could tell Ianto Jones bordered on the sketchy line between relative okay-ness and post traumatic stress. Knowing this, and being the rational, understanding doctor that she was, she did not ask him about what happened. No one did. She only held conference with two of the hospital psychologists; the three of them were in agreement that it would be best to wait until Ianto was out of the rack and into physical therapy before _anyone_ pressed the issue. Be it them or a doctor in Cardiff.

"Would you like to hear the latest update?"

Ianto nodded.

"Alright. In a few days, we're going to see how well healed your bone is. If we think it's enough, we'll remove the placement pins and the rack will be disassembled. You will then be put in a brace with elbow crutches, and you can go back to Cardiff. If you'd like, we can arrange for a physical therapist there, if you want to go home sooner. It's no trouble at all."

Ianto forced himself to smile. "Thank you."

Grant nodded. "No problem, Mr. Jones. That's our job, to make sure you get better and up on your feet. So, by the time we get all that arranged, which should be early next week when it's all said and done, you'll be in those elbow crutches. Is there someone at home that can help you out with your day to day needs? With the state of your leg, you will need some fairly frequent assistance until you get used to walking again."

No. Just me, alone, unwanted. Abandoned. No one will come. No one cares

"Yes."

"Would you like us to call them? To come get you?"

"No. He'll be expecting me. I can take a taxi."

He won't come.

Her smile wavered slightly. Ianto rushed forward a lie.

"He doesn't have a car."

"Oh," she gave a small chuckle, "I can see how that could be problematic."

"Just a bit." Ianto returned a false smile. Couldn't she just leave him alone now? Like the rest of them? She made too much noise.

She stood, putting her hands in white pockets of her lab coat. "We can pay for the fare."

Ianto nodded his head once, curtly.

Katrina Grant halted at the door, one hand on the silver handle. "You'll be fine, Ianto."

"Somehow I highly doubt that."

Katrina gave him the benefit of hearing-doubt and left the mumbled statement unchallenged. She could contact a psychiatrist in Cardiff and set up a meeting with the far-less-than-obviously troubled man. Katrina hoped he didn't have access to a firearm.

"Have a good day, Mr. Jones." And closed the door.

Ianto sighed and pushed his back further into the pillows.

x X x

Owen hadn't waited around in the hospital. Well, he had been kind enough to stay until Ianto was out of surgery and guaranteed not to die anytime soon. But after that, he acquired bus fare from one of the nurses and left for the nearest depot. Bought the ticket, waited for the bus, got on, went straight for the back, sat down, and leaned against the window. Put his feet on the chair next to him to ward off any passengers foolish enough to try socialising with him. His shoes, also, weren't very comfortable: they were a pair of some doctor's spare — and little-used — track shoes, and they were a size and a half too small.

But they were something to get home in. That was what counted.

He had fallen asleep some time during that two hour bus ride. Now, he wished that little girl had not awoken him (he very nearly slapped her) and allowed the bus to take him all the way back to London on a round trip. At least then he wouldn't be seeing this . . . mess.

His flat was far worse than he last remembered. Furniture lay canted in awkward positions, the black couch wounded and oozing its stuffing in a forlorn white pile. Papers had settled in scattered clumps, sullen and motionless like dead birds. Whomever had been through here must have been in a hurry, and struggling with someone.

_With me_, Owen corrected.

So . . . a little more of the mystery made itself known.

It didn't help much.

In fact, it had helped so little, Owen turned right back around and walked to the nearest pub. He managed to flirt a girl into buying the drinks and ended the night at her flat _sans_ clothes. The following morning, he went back to his place. Owen avoided looking at any of the living space and went to where he kept his spare cash. Pocketed it and headed for a diner. As the day progressed, he slowly worked his way down from food place to pub, drank the night away and slept with whoever was willing. This was how Owen spent the last eight weeks, more or less. A little bit of hope sparked at the sensation of being very nearly perpetually drunk.

Owen rolled over with a groan. His head had bloated behind his eyes, and his stomach screamed its protest to the consumption of so much alcohol. From a body next to him on the bed, a muffled something came.

"What?" Owen whispered, annoyed. Even _that_ was too loud.

"I said, don't wake Angie."

"Which one's Angie?"

"Closest to the bathroom. Can't keep tequila down for the life of her. Dunno why she still drinks it."

Owen scoffed. "Mate, with competition like you, I don't blame her."

The other man snorted and lifted the sheets off his head. "You weren't too bad yourself."

"Really? How could you honestly tell? There're three other people—"

"Did you notice the only other bloke with us at the pub isn't here?"

" . . . Ah."

The black-haired man (Owen dimly recalled his name being something like Vance or Gregory) smiled crookedly and stuck his head back under the sheet. "Your clothes are in the corner."

"Thanks."

"Vinny? Izzat 'ou?" A nude, long, lean, (and limber) blonde girl of no more than twenty said from the floor, half sitting up. She almost blocked the sliding door leading to the lou.

The addressed Vinny waved her over to the bed, where another woman had sprawled. Half across Vinny and half across where Owen used to lay.

"Over here, love."

"M'kay," she mumbled, staggered to the bed and collapsed on Vinny, forcing the other woman off. The other woman grunted once, but didn't make a return move. Owen shook his head and rooted through the pile of clothes near the door, extracted his, and stepped into the bathroom. He hastily splashed some water from the sink over his face and hopped into his boxers, pants. Slipped his stiff shirt on with a grimace and walked back through the sexed-body littered room, opened the door and walked down the hall to the front door where his shoes were deposited. Stepped into those — he'd have to live without that pair of socks, he didn't really want them back anyways . . . — and walked outside.

The bright light of nearly-noon stung his already aching head. He'd need aspirin — where the _hell_ was he, anyways? He glanced down the road; still Cardiff. A step in the right direction. Now all he needed to do was find out which street. . . . He didn't really want to walk around the entire bloody city with a hangover. Although he would eventually end up near some store or another . . . Why the _hell_ hadn't he driven? Perhaps he had, and he just couldn't call to mind where his car was parked. He checked his pockets. No keys. He definitely would have noticed if they were missing; locking his flat had become almost obsessively compulsive, as had locking his car. Locking anything he owned that had a key with which to lock it. He didn't want to be caught off guard again. He wished he had access to his gun. _A_ gun, any gun. Something more than his fists to protect himself.

Owen winced and kicked an innocent pebble into the street.

x X x

It was better with all the lights on. Nothing could hide when there was no dark to cover it with. No surprises, no secrets. No little thing that she could have missed the first dozen searches, not a thing that could tell her where Rhys had gone, what had happened to him. Why he hadn't left a note, why he hadn't contacted her in any way. With the lights on, she could pretend night never came, because night meant sleep and sleep meant dreams.

Gwen registered the knocking only in an obscure corner of her mind and curled further into the couch. The softness contrasted completely with the dark of her dreams, the coarse reality of horrid memories. The soft was _not_ the lukewarm water that encased her, trapped her. The couch was the counter of cold blood on her hands, of barbed wire snagging in her hair, of Jack's bloody ribcage, Ianto and his leg, the rats, Tosh, the cold . . . the stench of it all.

"Gwen! Gwen, it's Andy!" came a muffled voice from the door.

Andy?

"Andy? What . . ." Gwen rolled off the couch and slowly got to her feet, tugging her robe shut. She didn't care how bedraggled she looked. Why was Andy here?

"My god, Gwen. You're a mess!"

A fine, heartfelt greeting. Gwen didn't care.

"Rhys is gone," she sniffled. She rubbed at the dry tears crusted on her cheeks.

Andy's face fell into a frown. "We know, Gwen. We . . . we think we found him." He looked away, scratched at the base of his neck.

Gwen lit up. "Where is he? I want to see him." She started past Andy, but he put both hands on her shoulders.

"Gwen, he . . . he's dead."

"What? No, he can't be."

Andy squeezed her trembling shoulders. "I need you to come down to the station and help us ID him, if it is him. Gwen, look at me. It may not be him."

Gwen shook her head. "Andy, you know what Rhys looks like. You would know if it was him."

Andy took a deep breath. "Please, Gwen. If you don't come with me, it'll be someone else you don't know. Just half an hour."

Gwen swallowed thickly, glanced forlornly at her bright, cheerless, Rhys-less flat. "Alright."

She took her keys off the table near the door and pushed Andy out of the doorway. She pulled the door shut, locked both locks, and started down the stairs.

"Don't you want to get dressed first?"

"What for?"

Andy opened his mouth with an automated answer, but shut quickly shut it. Gwen's cold eyes froze him in place until she looked away. What had happened to her?

On Gwen's coffee table, her phone vibrated.


	2. 2

Hey! She _can_ update before it's been two weeks! It's a miracle!

Ok, because I forgot one earlier. **Disclaimer**: I own nothing of Torchwood, and am making no money from this, unfortunately. So make sure to review! You get to read this great stuff for free (_you_ guys are the ones who say it's good, mind you) and reviews always make me smile. Feel free to poke at anything you don't like, too. Critique very welcome. I can always improve, so, although I appreciate the compliments, do not insist that I am a genius who couldn't write any better.

Eternal thanks to **DeMarcos** and **Angel of Nevermore**, because they're both just so awesome and helpful!

And **pippychick** for that review of "The Torchwood Jigsaw" and the first chapter. Your reviews got me away from my email and writing this chapter. It was incredible . . . I wrote three pages in one day o,O

* * *

"Come on, pick up, pick up . . ." Impatient weight shifting, restless foot-tapping. Why wasn't she picking up?

"_The number you have reached_—"

"Bullshit it's not available!" He angrily snapped his phone shut and sighed explosively. None of them had the excuse of sleeping. Screw the time difference; he had a strong suspicion everyone's sleep had become highly irregular. If they slept at all. Well, there was the possible exception of Ianto . . .

Jack drew a steady, attempting-to-be-calming breath and thumped down onto the top of the grey retaining wall. He should be enjoying the view: Sunset Beach on a clear, mild day. People strolled casually along the sand, holding hands, throwing various objects for dogs to chase. Less than twenty yards to his left, a couple of well-muscled college-looking kids were digging a hole in the sand with large shovels. They laughed and pitched sand at each other with a familiar ease that suggested a long friendship. Nearer the water, a group of younger children were gathered around something that had washed up on the drab sand. From the way they poked it, a jellyfish. Translucent blob of goo, the minimal danger of being stung tantalising. A large wolfish dog barrelled right over the dead sea critter and the children dispersed, shrieking. A facial muscle twitched around Jack's lips. Not _quite_ a smile.

Gwen hadn't picked up her phone. After fifteen minutes of receiving the same automated voice, Jack gave it up for a half hour, then called again. No answer, still. That half hour of nothing had led him to walk here. He would much more have preferred the Bridge, but he didn't want to sit on a stuffy bus through rush hour traffic. Or walk. Walking there would have taken well over an hour. There could only be an hour or two of daylight left, and he would need to start looking for a place to stay the night. Maybe he would go to the world-famous bridge if Owen didn't answer.

_When_ he didn't answer, Jack corrected himself.

Dejection weighed sluggishly on his shoulders, down his back. He slumped when he walked and slouched when he sat. He . . . he missed them.

Air passed into his mouth, shuddering. He bit at his lip and straightened his back, determinedly focusing at the curve where sky and ocean hazed together. They couldn't stay away from each other for eternity. They'd come back, even if he had to drag them out — but no. He didn't think he had that privilege anymore. Maybe if he hadn't abandoned them, he could. But since he had, he was no longer entitled to the unorthodox means of getting his team to work. They probably despised him for running off. Assuming, of course, that they even devoted any thought to him. Gwen, especially, he expected to be the least concerned with he; Rhys was far less an ass, and he was _missing._ Predictable, bland, but _there_, when he wasn't gone because he'd been kidnapped by some sick fiend. Rhys was a thick, substantial, loyal human who wasn't the least prone to dashing off into dangerous and uncertain situations.

Assuming he was still alive.

For some inexplicable reason, Jack highly doubted it. He had the feeling they had unsuccessfully done what that psycho intended they do — those walls also seemed odd. Separating them when the other tasks suggested he/she/it wanted the team together. Something had disrupted the plans . . . perhaps their tormentor was dead, and they were completely safe.

. . . As safe as you can be while working for Torchwood.

Jack took out his phone. No missed calls, no new voicemail, nothing. Just T O R C H W O O D , white on black, glaringly clear. No faltering, no uncertainty, no grey area. It was as if the letters were trying to remind Jack why he was here. For Torchwood. To investigate a weird Rift surge in this city . . . and for a random call from Torchwood Four, if it really had been one of them. . . . It made absolutely no sense. They disappeared ages ago, and by coincidence he just _happens_ to get a call from them, while he just _happens_ to be away from the Hub, with most of his team having taken themselves out of commission.

"It's a trap."

Jack nearly fell from his perch on the retaining wall, down ten feet to the sand. He quickly stood, turning towards whoever had said that. And whoever had managed to startled him so badly in the first place. He really, _really_ needed to relax.

But what had made him so tense?

A homeless woman pushing a shopping card laden with bulging garbage sacks. Wondeful.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a trap, this city. Filled with so many ways of sin! Blasphemous homosexuals everywhere! Blocks and blocks of pretty little shops where good men are tempted by cheap dirty whores! The Devil's playground! Save yourself from sin while you still can — embrace the Lord God! Jesus is your Savior!"

A tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair and a pretty red-haired woman on his arm frowned at the homeless lady as he walked past. A small toddler wobbled behind him and he promptly bent to grab her, bringing her up to greater heights on his shoulders. She giggled and clapped her hands excitedly.

"Up! Up!"

Jack stuffed his phone back in his pocket and strode away. In the opposite direction of the crazy lady and the young couple.

"The Lord sees all from on high!"

Jack halted. A police officer walked lazily by, his gait suggesting he was nearing the end of his shift. Suddenly, his radio crackled.

"_All available units to the Golden Gate Bridge. We have an unsecured situation. Repeat, all available units to the Bridge. Please respond with confirmation."_

The cop unclipped his radio and mumbled something into it, abruptly turning left and cutting through the not-so-wide street-side parking lot.

Jack wished he had brought the SUV. He definitely needed it to get to the bridge . . . unsecured situations meant they had run into something they didn't even have a code for. Things they didn't have codes for were things they hadn't seen before. Which, in turn, translated to it being something alien. Or, simply (Jack almost hoped it would be this instead) something menial police did not know how to deal with, and it would quickly be relinquished to some higher government group.

And since Jack would — most likely, were the situation of non-terrestrial nature — be contacted sooner or later, he sprinted after the cop. A blue Prius nearly hit him; the subsequent cacophony of horns and squealing breaks drew the cop to turn around and look. Jack smiled at the female driver and jogged up to the cop, who was giving Jack a look of incredulity and slight curiosity.

"Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood." He offered his hand to the cop; the cop raised one eyebrow.

"Torchwood? That a new band?"

Jack restrained himself from scoffing. Why did police assume they were a band? Seriously, was that just a civil servant thing, or what? Go and take them for a band . . . how many bands show up at crime scenes in big black SUVs and just take over investigation? The people these days could be so dense.

"Guarantee you call your captain, and he says humour me. Go ahead. Haven't got all day, though. I need to be at the Bridge."

The cop kept sceptical eyes on Jack as he clicked on his radio.

"Captain Dougherty, I've got a Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood here. Says you'd give him the all-clear to come up to the Bridge. Please tell me I'm just being fooled by some local fruit."

Jack gave the man a watered-down glare. No sense pissing him off with dirty looks . . . He suppressed a smile at the next words that crackled over the radio.

"_Roger that. He wants to go up, let him. Just do what he says, Michaels. He'll be out of our hair soon._"

Her tone seemed slightly apprehensive. So they really _did_ have an alien issue. The FBI had probably already been called, for what miniscule amount of good _they_ could do. Jack almost scoffed aloud at the notion. Federal Bureau of Investigation of things human and earthly. Soon as any whiff of foreign off-worlders and in comes Torchwood! Taking over with no information giving and a stern shoo-shoo attitude. No wonder the local law enforcement in Cardiff disdained them so.

Michaels still looked uncertain. Here was this man, this random captain, in a long trench coat, coming out of nowhere and spouting off some weird name that Captain Dougherty seemed scared by. How could someone have power like that over his Captain, without the whole precinct knowing? Captain Dougherty never had any hidden foes, or alliances, for that matter, and was a very personable lady. And here was this guy, Captain Harkness, from Torchwood. What the hell was Torchwood, and why did he/they/it get full access to a situation he himself knew nothing about?

This captain also seemed as if he knew what was going on . . .

"How do you know what's going on?"

"I don't. I just know that you'll need me."

Michaels shifted his weight for a few moments before jerking his head in the direction of a squad car. "Get in and buckle up. I assume you want to be there as quickly as possible, Captain Harkness?"

"Jack. And yeah, that'd be best. Like your Captain said, I'll be out of your hair soon."

- - -

Imagine Jack's disappointment when he found out it was only a child. A child on top of the red, rectangular, and almost painfully large archway farthest from the toll booths. A helicopter circled high enough that the gusts created from the revolving blades wouldn't unbalance the child. All cars had been herded towards the toll booths, and traffic in both directions was completely stopped. As soon as Jack swung out of the cop's car, he was met by an absolute wolf-pack of angry, howling beeps and horns. People these days had no sense of patience.

Two fire trucks, an ambulance, and at least eight cop cars were parked under and around the massive tower. Emergency services personnel stood in little clusters of their own; the firemen together, the two paramedics leaning against the ambulance, one smoking, and police from various precincts stood in twos and threes. Michaels waved to a very tall, lanky woman with frizzy brown hair.

"Captain Dougherty!"

Her head snapped in their direction; the lady cop she had been speaking with looked offended. "Michaels! Get him over to the elevator and take him up."

Michaels glanced over at Jack.

"Well, lead the way."

Michaels dipped his head at an officer standing on the road-side of the tower. Then he hoisted himself over the side of the railing, and watched as Jack easily swung over, coat flapping rather dramatically. Michaels privately wondered if the captain practiced coat-swishing. Who knew? Anything could be possible with this guy . . . they didn't even know where he had come from.

"So where you coming from?"

"Cardiff."

Michaels knew it was in Europe . . . somewhere . . . vaguely . . . maybe?

"Wales. Next to England, Great Britain. That little island that basically won World War II?"

"I know," Michaels responded with some anger. Just going off an insulting him like that was totally unnecessary.

A man in a dark blue t-shirt and blue jeans stood next to a not very big rectangular panel in the side of the tower. It matched the rest of the bridge; red, riveted, and obviously built in a time when people weren't as tall, or wide. This man was neither, thankfully, because Jack assumed he was the one who knew how to work the lift.

"So what exactly is going on, besides the obvious?" Jack addressed both Michaels and the other man. The plainly clothed man answered.

"There's a little kid up there. No one knows how he got up there, and the police said he doesn't match any missing kids. So . . . a complete mystery. Who are you?"

"Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood."

"Another investigative branch the government doesn't want us knowing about?"

Jack shrugged. "The less you know, the better." Jack nodded at the lift. "How 'bout we go up?"

The man bobbed his head and twisted a key in the lock. He swung the door open all the way and Michaels held it. The lift was disappointingly small. Jack counted himself lucky that the man didn't sport an enormous beer-belly. That would have been a most awkward situation. Even when he pressed himself flat against the wall opposite the man, hardly a foot of space remained between them. They would never fit shoulder-to-shoulder.

The shuddering ride up proved to be disappointingly slow. Just as this man was disappointingly not talking. Jack didn't like the silence; he could think too much when it was quiet.

"So no idea how the kid got there?"

"Nope."

"And the only way up is through this lift — I assume there are others?"

"Yup."

"Those are the only ways of getting on top of the tower, correct?"

"Yes. Short of climbing the cables, or somehow hang gliding up. Coupla bird watchers saw him from Hawk Hill."

"How old is he?"

The man shrugged. Or tried to, at least. "They said he looked sommer around two, three, maybe four. Young."

Definitely not human. Or if he was, from a different time and had somehow been transported here. Either by accident of grave miscalculation. Never mess with history! A little boy shows up on the top of the Gold Gate Bridge, and people are going to remember it. For a while. Stupid idiots probably didn't even know what they were doing.

The elevator halted abruptly. Jack would have been jolted by it, were he not sandwiched between the two walls. The man operating it nodded for him to step out.

"I have to close the door, so as to not distract him. Knock if you need to come down."

Jack nodded and stepped out, stumbling backwards momentarily. How could this kid still be up here with that wind?

"Ya gonna be able to do it?"

"Of course."

"Good. Traffic's nasty right now, they really need to get the bridge open again." He ducked back inside and closed the door before Jack could offer a response.

Jack buttoned and tied his coat to keep it from whipping around and offsetting his balance. The wind stung his eyes. He straightened his back and scanned the wide top of the tower, not sure what the kid would look like. Hopefully, not red like the bridge. That would make finding him rather difficult.

"Okay, Owen —" Jack stopped himself, biting down painfully hard on his bottom lip. He only tasted a pathetically miniscule amount of blood.

He thought about checking the time, but a spot of white caught his attention. Hair, white-blonde, fine, being blown every direction by the body-moving wind. A small bit of tan neck was visible above a forest-green t-shirt. Black pants almost covered whatever shoes the boy wore. He was perhaps four yards off. Not very far, good. Only he was a little too close to the edge for Jack's comfort.

Jack crouched on one knee. The boy's head turned in his direction. Innocent blue eyes, baby-pudge cheeks, and a three-tooth smile met him. This kid had no idea where he was, probably. He certainly wasn't scared. Quite possibly not even from this planet, Jack thought.

"Hey, want to come down with me? It's too cold up here for such a handsome guy as yourself."

The kid smiled and clapped his hands. The wind stole his laughter, but Jack could feel it. Innocence . . . could be so uplifting. The young forgave everyone by default. They only saw the good in the world; they knew how to laugh, they had a good time, they didn't worry. Woe to the fact that could only last fifteen years at most, if you were incredibly shielded. By which point you would probably be sexually damned for the rest of your life. Perhaps that wouldn't be so bad . . .

Nah. Sex was far too fun.

Jack shuffled forward a bit more, and the kid stood from his sitting position. He kept making the _cutest_ gurgling noises of merriment. Jack couldn't hold back a smile. You could almost forget how far off the ground you were, how many people this little incident was holding up, and the fact that you just spoke to someone who wasn't there.

The kid swayed a little as he walked, most likely due to the howling wind gusting past. Jack started towards him, but stopped. Both arms out for balance, and absolutely devious grin spread across his unlined face. His eyes darted to the edge of the tower. Then they did a little blue dance between Jack's falling smile and the rust-red edge. _Oh please, no. _I _can go splat, but not you, kid,_ Jack prayed in his head. _The_ last thing he needed was to try ret-conning a few thousand people.

Before Jack could begin thinking of how exactly he would go about doing that, the kid darted for the edge. Jack threw himself at the small child; he caught him, hugged him to his chest.

And wasn't really on the top of the tower anymore.

He heard a few people scream before his world was compressed into a hard, black square. The kid squirmed, and then slid from his grip . . .

Onto the floor behind the reception desk.

* * *

Sleep was dead. Sleep didn't exist. Sleep wasn't real, sleep didn't care how traumatised any one was. Sleep only came to the exhausted, but not the worried or shocked. Oh, no, that would be _far_ too kind. Why let someone sleep that's just found out the one normal person in their life is irreparably dead? It was _only_ a little peace of mind, _only_ some rest. The grieving didn't _really_ need that, did they? Of course not. They stayed awake crying, hugging pictures, and wishing they could take back every bad thing they said/did/thought about the deceased person. Stared at the black TV screen, didn't eat, hardly blinked or moved.

You just don't know what to do when a death is so sudden like that. The easiest thing is to do nothing. Not answer either your phones, ignore anyone knocking at the door. Keep it locked and curl up on the couch.

But not sleep.

There were probably periods where she dozed off, but they were so light and infrequent it did nothing for her. And eating . . . she thought she ate. It was quite possible she had simply forgotten. It didn't matter, not yet. Rhys was _dead_. He'd never eat again, he'd never eat with Gwen, they'd never fight, they'd never be married, never have kids, never say "I love you." Permanently gone. No one to keep secrets from.

The phone near the kitchen shrilled out against the silence. Gwen ignored it and closed her eyes, a few tears slipping out. Please _God_ don't let it be Rhys' mum. Or hers.

"Hey Gwen, it's Jack. I could really use some help right now . . . something unexpected happened in San Francisco, and I've got —" a breaking glass could be heard faintly in the background. Jack sighed heavily. "And now I have to clean up more glass. Call me when you can . . . . Look, Gwen, I know you're not out, and I know Rhys is dead. So . . . so just call, or come in, and we can talk. Please."

He hung up.

Gwen didn't make any move for the phone sleeping on the counter, or her portable black one that had nearly gotten her and Owen killed during that whole Ianto's-psychotic-girlfriend-wants-to-convert-everyone incident. It would be so simple to call; her cell was fully charged and laying on the coffee table not a metre in front of her. He could call all he wanted, she wouldn't respond. He didn't deserve acknowledgement. Not after he did nothing to find Rhys. Why had it taken Jack almost two months to contact her?

She snatched her phone off the glass. Two hundred and thirty-seven missed calls, half as many voicemails. All from Jack.

"Maybe I should at least see what he wants. Can just leave if I don't like it . . ."

Gwen lugged herself off the couch, shuffling to her bedroom. Discarding various articles of clothing along the way and not caring where they fell. Once she reached the shower, she turned it as cold as it would go. Bitingly cold. It more effectively woke her up than a shot of espresso. Once done with her frigid cleansing, she shrugged into a loose t-shirt, hopped into black jeans, and hunted for two relatively clean, preferably matching, socks.

It proved to be a bit more difficult than she had anticipated. Clothes and bedding sprawled, scattered, everywhere. Dirty fabrics were shoved into corners and along walls. Clean and dirty mingled together nonchalantly, friendly and casual, oblivious to Gwen's plight.

Finally she settled on two socks that were approximately the same colour. Shoes were quite easier to locate, seeing as they hadn't left their home close to the door. The right one was on its side. Gwen slipped them on, slung on her coat, pocketed her keys, and locked the door when she was outside.

- - -

"Jack?" Gwen called into the disarrayed Hub. None of the computers were on, and most didn't even look plugged in. All the stations were tangles of wire spaghetti and paper shreds. What had happened?

A weird sound echoed from the direction of the corridor leading to the cells. Gwen's eyebrows drew together and she took a tentative step forward. It came again; giggling. The happy, carefree sound of a young child.

"Jack?" This was most confusing. Did Jack . . . have . . . a . . . kid he never told them about? And if so, why would he bring he/she/it here?

Gwen stopped and leaned against the mess that marked Tosh's station. Jack had said something about San Francisco . . . what had he been doing in San Francisco?

"Kid, come on, give it back."

More giggling.

"Kid — No —!"

_BANG!_

"God, _damn it_! GAH! Get back here!"

A little boy, perhaps four, more likely younger, came up the stairs on the unsteady trot native to young children. He had Jack's pistol in both hands, laughing uproariously. His white-blonde hair was mussed with cowlicks and cockatiel spikes, and his rosy cheeks suggested he had recently awoken from a nap.

He stopped when he saw Gwen. His laughter fell to spurts of chuckles, and his grin devolved to an adorable smile. Gwen crouched on one knee and held out her hand. He came forward, tittering, and handed the gun to her. Then he raced past her to the autopsy theatre, and soon after many clangs could be heard. A metal tray fell over with a hollow clang and the child's laughter erupted once more. Gwen would have smiled if Jack hadn't staggered up the stairs then, grimacing with one hand pressed to his bloody side.

She hesitated. Should she help him, after he abandoned them so easily? Left Ianto in the hospital and completely forgot about her, Owen, and Tosh? Hadn't helped Rhys? What reason did she have to help him?

Well, Gwen thought, he had left them in the care of people with which they would be safe. It wasn't as if he had left them dying in the gutter . . .

"Gwen?"

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone."

"Why not?"

Jack fell gracelessly into a computer chair, wincing. "None of you have returned any of my calls, no one came in until now. Ianto, I can understand why. But you and Owen . . ."

"Me and Owen what? And have you forgotten about Tosh, Jack?" Gwen crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.

"No. I haven't forgotten about her. I _never_ forgot about her, or the rest of you."

"What about Rhys, huh? Think of him at all, for a second?"

"Constantly. Because I knew he was as good as dead when I saw the picture, Gwen. There was no way we could have found him. Unless you'd like to go back to that exact moment and attempt whatever other tasks that psycho had in mind for us?"

Gwen shook her head. "Of course not. But you could have come and gotten us! Instead of just leaving!"

"I called you! You never answered!"

"You have a brain, Jack, use it."

"Oh, that's mature."

"I came to you, Jack. You didn't come to me. Nothing was stopping you!"

"That's not necessarily true."

"Oh really? Then what was keeping you so busy?"

"That _thing_," he hissed with a nod at the autopsy room. The kid was still laughing.

"For eight weeks?"

". . . no. Two days. I . . . found him in San Francisco," he finished lamely, not even trying to sound convincing. Gwen would get the information out of him eventually; she was angry, and Rhys was dead. She didn't particularly have anything to lose.

"Found him."

"Well, not exactly. He was . . . on the top of the Golden Gate Bridge."

"So you brought him down and back here?"

"Not really."

"Not really?"

"We . . . he . . . he was about to walk off the edge. I dove after him."

"And?"

"He teleported us back here. Directly to the Hub."

Gwen could not bring herself to say something snide. Jack seemed confused. "Do you know how he did it?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"So why do you need me, again?"

"I thought it was obvious," he pointed at his side with a slight glare.

"What, you want me to baby-sit?"

"Not baby-sit, just watch him. Keep him away from the armoury, or sharp objects, my office. He got me with a scalpel this morning. I had to move everything from that room into locked draws. It's just trays now. Owen's going to be pissed . . ."

"Have you called him?"

"Yes. He hasn't answered."

"How about Ianto?"

Jack shook his head. "Ianto will only just be back from the hospital, I can't ask him to work."

"You haven't gone to see him."

Jack only gazed at her benignly, uncertainly, not answering. Gwen felt she had stepped onto a sensitive subject. She kept that in mind for further interrogations and then moved the conversation back to Owen.

"Why don't you go find Owen, and I can stay here with _him_?"

". . . that could work, except that there's nothing for him to do here."

"And there is elsewhere?"

Jack grinned.

"Oh no, no way am I taking him out somewhere public."

"I wasn't suggesting that."

"What _do_ you suggest, then?"

"Maybe take him back to your place, have him watch some films?"

Gwen snorted. "I'd have to put away all the cutlery under lock and key though, wouldn't I?"

Jack shrugged. "Possibly. But he seems to like you more; he gave you my gun. He wouldn't give it back to _me_. And he hasn't attacked your kneecaps, which is probably a good sign."

Gwen mulled over her options. Take the kid to her messy flat, run the risk of being stabbed or injured in some equally painful manner. Or . . .

"How about we _both_ go get Owen, and bring the kid with us? That way I can know you won't go running off."

"Why would I go running off?"

"You've done it once already."

He stood, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked towards his office. When he reached his desk, he opened a drawer and extracted a ring of keys. He tossed them to Gwen; she caught them, wondering what they were for.

"I'll meet you at the SUV. Put the kid in the back, to be safe."

"Alright. And Jack?"

"Yes?"

"Don't think I've forgiven you."

* * *

Now before people point out the fact that I switched from U.S. measurement to metric: I did it on purpose. Because in the US they (rather stupidly, in my opinion. And I _live_ here) do not use metric measurements. Hence why the kid was yards away instead of metres. See? So please don't state the obvious, this is just my realist reasoning.


	3. 3

Utter blasphemy! Not catching that _horrid_ typo. . . . This is what happens when you go to bed at three a.m. and expect to function properly the next day . . .

So, I forgot to thank someone last time: **Aqua Mage** again, as was during "The Torchwood Jigsaw"s three months of being written, for being the first to review each update. Thanks again!

I think everyone knows **DeMarcos **and **Angel of Nevermore** always get a mention. **DeMarcos **. . . I am forever grateful to thee. :bow:

Pain is an illusion.

* * *

"Ianto? Will that be all?"

Ianto nodded, giving her a tiny, pinched smile. "I can manage for the rest of the night."

"Okay. Just call if you need _anything_. Please don't strain your leg."

"I won't. Promise."

She smiled happily. "Good night then. See you at seven."

Ianto pushed the door shut with one of his elbow crutches and hobbled back to the couch. He was beginning to thoroughly despise it. He had spent _far_ too much time sitting and — regrettably — falling asleep on the thing. Ianto also couldn't recall a time, _ever_, when he had seen so many bad movies.

Yesenia Santos was a nice Colombian woman who had moved to Wales a few years ago for her job as an at-home nurse. She had a pleasant accent and knew not to ask Ianto about his leg. The one time she did, he told her it had been a very bad car accident. He didn't think she believed him.

Ianto also had no idea where she came from. _He_ certainly hadn't arranged for her, and neither was he paying. He suspected Jack was behind it, the guilty bastard. Couldn't come visit and help, so instead hires a nurse? How thoughtful.

But he really didn't blame the captain. Not entirely. It would have been heartless to just let Ianto try to fend for himself. And it affirmed one thing: Jack was in Cardiff. Or had been when Ianto returned from the hospital. Yesenia had shown up at seven in the morning the first full day he was back. Ianto had been utterly confused for a few minutes; Yesenia was kind and understanding and explained things in a very simple manner. Ianto allowed her to do her job, and she didn't make anything too personal.

Sure, sometimes the whole film business pushed it, but she brought occasional Spanish ones. Which, she kept commenting while laughing, were horrendous as far as acting and plot went. Ianto didn't mind too much. It was something to distract him from the thought of sleeping.

Because sleeping meant seeing everything. In such great detail he didn't know was possible of the unconscious. He tried to avoid sleeping as much as possible, but there was only so long he could go. It didn't help that the afternoon Vicodin made him drowsier and more nauseous than the morning one. That first pill made him slightly nauseous to the point where he only had light breakfasts, explaining to Yesenia that he had never eaten much in the mornings, pain medication or not. She always smiled and said "no worries, _chico_." Ianto was fairly certain that she suspected something was a little off psychologically. She may have told another doctor, but it was more likely she hadn't. Probably told herself she'd keep an eye our for any signs of depressive/homicidal behaviour.

For now, she just made sure he didn't hurt himself. No long walks, on the four occasions she had managed to convince him out of his flat for something besides meeting with his physical therapist. No moving furniture (like he would do that anyways — everything was just perfect, as he had left it) no being on his feet to rearrange or organise things.

That was also odd, how perfect everything had been. Presumably, he had been grabbed, drugged, and dragged to that _place_ and, tea boy or not, he wouldn't have taken lightly to that. If he _had_ been taken directly from his flat, a struggle would disturb _something._ A coaster, a shelf, the coffee table. . . . This led Ianto to conclude he was taken from the Hub, or somewhere outside his flat. He was glad, though, because it would have unsettled him to come back to a mess. But then again, Jack could have — and most likely _had _— returned before the rest of them, and come here to straighten things out. . . . The odds, however, of Jack knowing _precisely _everything's original places were slim. Hence, Ianto's kidnapping had not occurred inside his home.

Thank whatever watched them for small favours.

Ianto sighed and stood from the couch, making his slow way to his bedroom. Once there, he glanced at the clock as he gracelessly sat on the bed. 21:33. Not late enough. Too early. But he desperately had to fight his descending eyelids; he hadn't brushed his teeth yet. Once that whole routine was done, that small part he could still control, he'd have dreams — nightmares — to worry about. Ianto scoffed aloud. Maybe he'd be lucky and get some variety. Maybe the one to die would be Yesenia, or a nameless face of some relatively attractive Latino actor. At least that way he wouldn't have to watch Jack's ribs burst open, watch Gwen's smile split her rotting face while her fell in black chunks; not have to see Owen be devoured alive by blood-lusting rats, or stand by, helpless as Toshiko really _did_ snap and murder them all with the blunt edge of her bruised laptop.

And then there were the utterly nonsensical (and _very_ infrequent) dreams. Like the one he had a few days ago. He had, somehow, fallen asleep on his couch. He placed all the blame on the couch: none of these admittedly odd . . . dreams happened when he slept in his bed.

This particular occurrence had involved all of Torchwood Three, before the recent incident. And for some reason Suzie was there.

And they were all singing.

It deeply disturbed Ianto.

Owen had been merrily slicing up some hapless corpse, humming absently to himself. He cut open the chest and extracted a heart, plopping it nonchalantly into a scale. He removed it and put it into a tray, then went back to remove other organs. His humming stayed in tune and remained uninterrupted through meat removal.

But then Owen flung the scalpel over his shoulder with a dramatic flick, and jumped onto the table. He threw his arms out, feet braced on either side of the eviscerated body, and belted out part of the song:

"Jealousy, turning saints into the sea, swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis. But it's just the price I pay, destiny is caaaaaaalling me, open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Briiiiiiiiiightsiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!"

While that was going on, Tosh sang, too. Only much more quietly, and without looking away from her computer screen. A game with flashing colours. . . . It looked to be something from a children's site.

"I hate men. Of all the types I've ever met within our democracy, I hate most the athlete with his manner bold and brassy, he may have hair upon his chest but, sister, so has Lassie. Oh, I hate men! They should be kept like piggies in a pen."

Suzie was sitting up in her morgue drawer. Somehow, she had the knife she had used to kill those people, and she was stroking it lovingly. The way some people would pet a well-loved cat. Her eyes kept twitching.

"Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness, I need to calculate what creates my own madness. I feel irrational! So confrontational! To tell the truth again, I'm getting away with _mur­_-der. It isn't possible, to never tell the truth, but the reality is I'm getting away with murder."

Jack stood with perfect balance on the railing bordering the walkway leading to the conference room.

"_I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut. My weakness is, that I care too much. And my scars remind me, that the past is re-aaaal. I tear my heart open, just to feeeeeeeel!_" He looked like he wanted to fall forward, smash himself out of life for a few moments. He was crying.

And then Gwen . . . Gwen danced around the conference room, bouncing and generally acting like some sugar-high teenager.

"The night you came into my life, well, took the bones of me, took the bones of me. You blew away my storm and strife, and shook the bones of me, shook the bones of me. By the way, I do know why you stayed away . . . My face said too much, before our hands could even touch, to greet hello. I know me very well. At least as far as I knoooooow."

Fortunately, that particular . . . dream . . . had been the worst. And most unsettling. Ianto _swore_ he lost more sleep over fear of something like that recurring than he did from visions of people decomposing while still alive. Ianto nearly shuddered. Better not to think about those things until he absolutely had to. For now, his routine in preparation for sleep needed to be carried out.

Not just routine anymore . . . nearing ritualistic. He clung desperately to the one normal thing in his life. Everything else comprised of reminders of that whole wretched incident. Ianto had — in his deplorably large amount of spare time — made a mental list he tried to ignore.

1. Physical therapy. The three-times-a-week reminder that he was more or less crippled for life. The therapist insisted that he'd be able to walk normally after a while, and that time would come sooner if he regularly did the exercises. That still didn't change the fact that Ianto would have the pins in his leg for the rest of his life, however long it would be. No one in Torchwood was known for making it up to/past seventy.

Excluding Jack, of course.

2. Yesenia. The stinging fact that he couldn't do normal things very efficiently. And that no one seemed to trust him _not_ to do things that would strain his leg. The whole thing, aside from being incredibly frustrating, wounded him somewhere near his pride. He at least had been able to convince Yesenia he didn't need help showering; as compromise, she brought a shower bench. Ianto avoided using it. The woman couldn't help it, it was part of her job. What she couldn't help him with, though, were the images and nightmares.

3. Revisiting the revulsion. It all came, unbidden and woefully unwanted. He could be eating something as simple as a sandwich, and he would see the rats again. Smell rotting things and hear, _feel_ the filthy rodents chewing on his hair, inside his head. He did his best to hide it but . . . Yesenia could tell, he knew for certain. It concerned her when he didn't finish a meal, would simply put it down and limp to the couch or his bedroom. She was courteous — and intelligent — and threw away the food. If he saw the thing again, everything would come back again.

3a. Nightmares. He couldn't control what he did while walking along black corridors, plummeting into pits of razor wire, dancing a grotesque conga with crumbing corpses. He was increasingly grateful Yesenia trusted he could be alone for ten hours. He probably vocalised his horror. He knew that he very rarely lay still: upon waking, the blankets would be in a heep at one end of the bed, the sheets occasionally pulled completely free of the mattress. He did his best to reassemble the bedding so that it at least _looked_ like he slept relatively undisturbed.

21:34.

Ianto closed his eyes, set his crutches against the bedside table, and slid under the blankets. The Vicodin bottle glared at him from next to a glass of water.

* * *

"I'll go get Owen," Jack said as he opened the door. Gwen sighed and leaned her head against the window. She wished she had some coffee and aspirin. And something warm and soft to pet. Preferably a cat of some sort. Nice, non-argumentative kitty keen on a little nap-snuggle.

"Come back you fat bearded bitch!"

Gwen turned around, mouth agape, to look at the little kid behind the grid that separated the back seats and the trunk space. Jack couldn't help self-consciously looking down at his stomach and rubbing his chin as he stuck his head back in the still-open door and looked at Gwen.

"Was that you?"

"Do you honestly think I would say something like that?!"

Jack shrugged, then sighed.

"And I thought you said he didn't speak."

"He doesn't know what he's saying . . . it's just parroting, he must have heard it somewhere . . . What? Not from _me_."

Gwen rolled her eyes, reached over and undid her seatbelt.

"What are you doing?"

"Coming with you."

"You have to stay here with him."

"No I don't. Besides, it can't be good to keep him in a cage like that."

And before Jack could protest, she was walking around to the back and opening the trunk door.

"Come here, you little blonde nuisance."

The kid smiled and laughed, clapping his hands together. "Yippy-ki-yay, muver fukah!"

"Definitely parroting," Gwen mumbled to herself and scooped the kid out of the trunk. She repositioned him so that he sat on her hip. He grinned toothily and uttered a single, high shriek-chuckle and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

"No, love, that's bad for your teeth," Gwen said as she gently pulled his thumb out. He glared at her; she smiled and blew on his nose. He blinked, snorted, and then giggled. "I don't see why you had such a difficult time with him."

Jack shook his head. "He's out to get me. I can't help it. I _just_ grabbed him while he was falling off the top of the Golden Gate Bridge. Because that's _trivial_ by comparison of getting him out of the trunk . . ." Jack mumbled mostly to himself, but Gwen still heard it. The kid grabbed a fistful of her shirt and rubbed it against his cheek, cooing.

"As long as you don't try to eat it."

He smiled and laid his head on her shoulder.

* * *

Why did the sun have to be so bloody _bright_? Didn't it know people wanted to sleep? Inconsiderate twat. There were guys with hangovers, here! Just stay down a few more hours so they could put off rolling out of bed and staggering around with pounding headaches. It needed to be darker when looking for some way to get rid of said hangover; with too much light you lost your focus and ended up curled up in _the_ filthiest corner of your bathroom. Because for some reason, hangovers forced you into places you normally wouldn't even consider spending the night; _you just want the damned headache to go away!_

Owen pressed his forehead into the side of the toilet. The past three days were probably some of the stupidest during his seven (give or take a week or two, he had lost track ages ago) week binge. Day One, go out and get piss-drunk, wake up beginning of Day Two in bed with one male, one female, and three other women in the same room, all passed out from heavy drinking and an entire night of sex. Spend most of Day Two walking back to his flat, because he kept taking detours to avoid the sun. Hence, by midday, he found himself inside a very dark pub somewhere approximately three miles from his flat. And that led to more drinking, which led to unwittingly (and shamelessly) flirting with some guy who had enough cocaine to generously share. This, in turn, equated to where he was now, huddled in his bathroom trying to find surfaces cold enough to numb his head.

It wasn't really working.

Somehow, those were the only three days he remembered out of fifty. Owen figured that wasn't a good sign.

Someone knocked on his front door.

"_Owen!_"

Jack?

No. He hadn't been present in six . . . seven . . . nine . . . eight weeks? How long _had_ it been?

"Christ, can't even count anymore," Owen mumbled, and pushed his head harder against the white bulge of the toilet.

"_Owen, I know you're there. Do you really want me to break the door?_"

Oh, just bugger off already. . . .

"_Owen? Stop being an ass!_"

Wait, that was Gwen . . .

Owen slowly stood, grabbing the bottle of aspirin off the counter on his way out. He dry-swallowed three; it didn't help.

"_Duwty mug-hopping, wat bastuwd!_" followed by a healthy bout of child-laughter sounded from behind the door.

"What the hell . . ." Owen muttered to himself. Since when did any of them have children?

. . . Why did life have to be so damn confusing?

Owen unlocked the door. The clicks grated harshly in his ears. He made a quick mental note never to take cocaine from a stranger. Or any illicit drugs whose whereabouts were more questionable than normal. Owen remarked that he probably wouldn't have such a bad headache if he hadn't been drinking for . . . possibly two months straight. Hell, it could have been half a year and he wouldn't have known any better.

"Hello, Owen," Gwen said amiably when the door was open.

Owen gaped at her. Small blonde child sitting comfortably on her hip, grinning in the huge, innocent way only children can manage. What?

"Gwen . . . is . . . tell me that isn't yours."

"Oh, no. Jack found him."

"Found him." Owen swung his eyes to Jack.

Jack shrugged. "If you had ever answered your phone, you would've known I went to San Francisco recently."

"Did anya you guys order an asshole from woom-suvice?" The small male kid said, pointing at Owen.

Had the kid really just said that?

"Now now, don't say things like that. It's rude, and poor Owen has a headache. Can you be nice to him?" Gwen said in a soft voice to the kid, smiling. He tilted his head to one side, trying to understand. Then he smiled and stuck his fist in his mouth. Gwen pulled it out and glanced at Jack.

"What?"

"I think he's hungry."

"Then we'll pick up some food on the way. Come on, Owen, time to get to work."

"Doing what, exactly? You don't honestly need me to baby-sit."

"No. We need you to help run tests. Get in the car."

Owen leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. "Why should I? You didn't come and find any of us until _now_? It's been two months, Jack! What about Ianto? Gone to see him yet? Because I know he can't do things on his own, not with the shape his leg was in. Left him alone?"

"No."

"Then what?"

Jack's eyes darted to the ground for a moment before snapping back to Owen. If he hadn't had such a horrible headache, Owen would have flinched. "I contracted a nurse. He's fine."

"So you _have_ seen him?"

"Yes."

"But not visited, checked up to make sure he hasn't gone insane —"

Jack stepped forward, one hand firmly clamping around Owen's neck. "You want to question my judgement, fine. Don't tell me about being irresponsible when all you've done is drink yourself stupid. _You_ could have come back, Owen. There was nothing stopping you."

Gwen put her free hand on Jack's shoulder. "Jack. . . ."

He let go and swiftly turned around, resolutely walking away with a stiff back.

"C'mon, Owen. We'll get some coffee."

* * *

Songs:

The Killers "Mr. Brightside"

"I Hate Men" from Kiss Me Kate.

Papa Roach "Getting Away With Murder"

Papa Roach "Scars"

Carbon Leaf "Life Less Ordinary"

Special don't-sue-me note: All the kid's lines are from various movies. I do not own the rights to those movies, and any recognizable quotes belong to the respective creators/owners.


	4. 4

OK! First long update absence! First off: Apologies. Many of them. The weekend happened, and I had a party all day Saturday, then Sunday I had to go on a hike because family came to visit, then Monday we had to drive my sister half an hour north for a birthday party, and were stuck there for three hours while we waited for the bloody thing to end, and then Tuesday was my birthday, so I was gone from the house all day. Wednesday I was in bed trying to pretend the sun didn't exist and that the world _would_ indeed stop spinning at some point before noon, and now here we are! Ugh.

* * *

"Jack, where the hell is my equipment?!"

Jack sighed and walked out of his office, keys in hand.

"You _locked_ it up?"

"The kid tried to remove my kneecaps with a scalpel. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Let him have another go."

Jack rolled his eyes and contemplated not unlocking any of the drawers, but then he realised it wouldn't do any of them good to piss off a hung-over Owen.

Jack could feel Owen's eyes on his back as he unlocked the drawers and righted the trays. When he finished, he turned around, arms crossed. Owen just stared at him, hands in the pockets of his white lab coast.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. Just next time—"

"Next time what? Come hold your hand? You're an adult, and I trusted that you could handle things on your own. Apparently I was wrong."

Owen scowled. "Well? Where's the kid?"

"Gwen?" Jack called over his shoulder.

"Coming! Oh, there's no need to bring the computer with you, silly."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n!"

Owen raised an eyebrow at Jack. "Are you sure he doesn't understand what he's saying?"

"Yes."

The kid appeared at the top of the stairs. He tilted his head to the side, smiling. Always so damn _happy_. He laughed and stomped his feet, hopping down the stairs; a jump and a satisfying sold thump of his feet on each stair. Gwen followed carefully behind, smiling slightly. When he reached the bottom, she playfully grabbed him by the waist and plopped him on the autopsy table. He squirmed uncomfortably; Gwen tickled him and he relaxed into high pitched shrieks.

"So, Jack, what do you want me to test?"

"Just draw a blood sample and do the usual _non_-invasive scans."

"Alright. Gwen, hold him still."

Owen readied the needle, and Gwen walked around the other side of the table. She rubbed the kid's back soothingly, saying "Just a little pinch." Owen glanced at Gwen before easing the needle into the small, pudgy arm. The tiny blonde's face pulled into a scowl, but he did not cry, or shout, or move. He was surprisingly cooperative.

"See? All done. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

The kid did not lift his scowl from Owen. "Go drop your pants and chase a doughnut."

Owen's jaw came unhinged. "Ja-aaack!" he whined.

Jack appeared at the railing, slipping into his coat. "What?"

"Make him stop!"

"You're being childish."

"My head's bloody pounding!"

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours."

Jack levelled his eyes at Owen, glaring evenly. Owen glared right back, folding his arms across his chest.

"Call me when you're finished. I'm going out." And he turned to leave.

Gwen glanced at Owen and then ascended the stairs two at time. Jack paused in the open grate-doorway and turned around. "Yes?"

"I could come with you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need to do this alone."

"Do what alone?"

He sighed and faced towards the door again. "Call me when he's done. I'll come straight back."

"From where?!" she yelled, but Jack was gone. Gwen huffed in irritation and returned to watch Owen.

* * *

"So, Ianto, would you like to do something before your appointment?"

Ianto swallowed his mouthful of salad. "What time is it?"

"9:45. An hour before we need to leave. I brought—"

A loud, solid knock on the front door interrupted her. She shot a confused look at Ianto; he returned it. "I'm not expecting anyone," he offered.

Yesenia moved from the kitchen to the door. Another knock sounded just as she reached the handle and twisted it. She opened it barely halfway, peering around it with a mild, neutral expression. Ianto couldn't see who it was from his position at the table.

"May I help you?"

"Is Ianto here?"

Ianto froze. That sounded like Jack. . . . Against his better judgement, Ianto grabbed his crutches and braced them around his arms, making steady progress towards the door. Walking _had_ become easier, as much as he didn't want to admit that the therapist had been right. He didn't mind the therapist; it was just that the man looked a little _too_ concerned sometimes. It annoyed Ianto that everyone _cared_ so much. Why didn't they just ignore him, like the other four people he had been with? He didn't need acknowledging. What was the point? If he were to drop dead right then and there, in front of Yesenia and Jack, the world would keep spinning and humanity would survive. Ianto was completely unimportant to life.

Yesenia turned to him, the confused look still on her face.

Ianto pushed the door open the rest of the way with the bottom of his left crutch.

"It's alright Yesenia. You can go home for today."

Yesenia looked from Ianto to Jack, and back to Ianto. Her eyes asked questions for her. "Yesenia, this is my boss, Captain Jack Harkness."

Jack amiably stuck out his hand with a tight smile. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Yesenia cautiously took his hand. "_Estoy encantada_. Pleased to meet you, Captain Harkness." Her gaze swung back to Ianto as she spoke. "I guess he can take you to your appointment?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be leaving. You can keep the videos for tonight," she added with a nervous chuckle. Grabbed her coat, slipped it on, and walked past Jack, glancing over her shoulder as he stepped inside.

Jack closed the door an instant later and stood there, somewhat lost. Ianto sighed and made his way back to the table.

"I suppose you came here to apologise?" Ianto said before taking a small bite of a droopy lettuce leaf.

Jack breathed deeply and sat opposite Ianto. "Yes. I—"

"It's been over ten weeks, Jack! How long have you been in Cardiff since . . . since _everything_?! _Someone_ had to hire Yesenia, and I doubt it was Owen!" Ianto growled quietly before standing, taking his plate into the kitchen. Jack followed, waiting patiently until Ianto turned around from the garbage.

Ianto straightened his back as Jack swung pleading eyes on him. "I'm so sorry Ianto. I didn't want to leave—"

Jack paused for an infinitesimal moment, before he ripped his eyes away from Ianto, swinging his head around and raking a hand through his hair.

"Then why did you?!"

"Because I couldn't face any of you!"

"And why the hell not! It's not like we were planning to leave the country! I was in that hospital for seven weeks, Jack. Not one visitor. And here you were! Sulking around Cardiff and contracting nurses! Why didn't you come, or call?"

Jack audibly swallowed, his shoulders falling.

"I couldn't," he whispered.

He sounded so _broken_. Ianto momentarily abandoned his anger and touched Jack's hand. Jack looked up with moist eyes. "It was the only way to keep you safe."

Ianto remained silent. Was this why Jack had stayed away? He thought Ianto wouldn't be _safe_? "Jack."

"Yes?"

"Why did you think we wouldn't be safe?"

"Because the whole thing is my fault. I started Torchwood, I hired you, _I_ got you dragged into this mess."

"Jack—"

"No, Ianto. I'm sorry it all happened. I'm sorry you got hurt, and I'm sorry I can't do anything about it."

"Oh, Jack." Ianto wrapped his arms around Jack; Jack's head fell onto his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," Jack said into his hair, his breath hitching.

Ianto stayed silent for a few moments, feeling Jack shudder.

"I forgive you."

* * *

Owen stood in front of the metal table, intensely scrutinising the scan results displayed against the wall. He had allowed Gwen to remove the child from the operating theatre, and Owen could still hear his giggles as Gwen showed him _who_ knew what on some children's game site. However, Owen attempted to ignore it and instead focused on the three dimensional computer-generated image in front of him. The kid was definitely alien, no doubt about it.

But not entirely so. The puzzling thing, aside from an extra organ, was that he seemed to have human blood in him. Owen wondered again where the kid had come from. Jack said he found him on top of the Golden Gate Bridge, but were had the foul-mouthed, blonde annoyance come from before then?

His wandering deductions were interrupted by the vault door sliding back, and Gwen exclaiming.

"Ianto!"

Owen heard her stomp down the stairs, and a small chuckle from Ianto.

"I'm sorry I didn't call. . . ."

"It's alright."

"So shines a good deed in a weary world," the kid offered from wherever it was he sat. Owen decided he'd rather come out under his own will, and not at the request of Jack. he slowly, grudgingly ascended the stairs and stood at the entrance to the circular room.

Ianto was, rather unsurprisingly, on elbow crutches. Owen hadn't expected anything else. Admittedly, he hadn't expected Ianto to come back this soon. If at all.

"I thought I said to call when you were finished." Jack addressed him from across the room. The captain flicked his eyes to the blonde kid smiling at the flashing computer screen, and then snapped them back to Owen. Owen held up his hands in a "whatever" gesture.

"We only finished a few minutes ago."

"Okay, and what are the results?"

Owen turned back. "Come have a look." And walked down the stairs. Thank goodness he wouldn't have to interact with more than one person.

Jack followed with a sigh, allowing Gwen to chat with Ianto. A chair scraped across the floor behind Jack; something tugged on the back of his trouser leg. The kid looked up at him with adorable blue eyes, a not-quite-frown on his plump lips. He looked slightly frustrated with something.

"How may I help you?"

He responded by another tug.

"What is it?" Jack said, a little impatient. He wanted to see what the scans had revealed.

The little hand did not release its grip. The kid started the walk back towards the computer, attempting to pull Jack with him. Jack reached down and gently pried the soft fingers from the fabric. Was he . . . _staling_ Jack?

"Gwen, a little help here?"

Gwen issued a small, startled gasp and scooped the kid into her arms. "Don't be a bother, sweetie. Let Jack do his work." Gwen met Jack's eyes, almost reprimanding him. What did she expect? That alien child liked seeing him in pain! Was he supposed to be _kind_ to it?

Jack shook his head and came to stand at the railing of the med bay. Owen stood to one side of the blue-ish computer projection with a pointer. In the relatively short time Jack had been gone, Owen had managed to create a rather detailed three-dimensional model of the child. The image was broken down into a skeletal structure, the nervous system, muscles, and organs.

"Wait, is that _two_ hearts?"

"Surprising, right? That's not what's weird about him. Well, it's not the weirdest thing." Owen held a phial of blood by its lid; he tossed it to Jack. Jack easily caught it and slowly turned the bottled dark red substance. Owen had labelled it "The Rude One."

"His blood."

"I can see that."

Owen rolled his eyes and came to stand next to Jack. He put his elbows on the railing, his back to the med bay. "It's half human, half something else."

"I'm not surprised," Jack muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"Don't worry about it."

"So do you know what he is?"

"Maybe."

Owen vaguely nodded and crossed his arms over his chest again. Gwen was seated on the computer chair, the kid comfortably in her lap. She had a small, grease-splotched bag of chips in one hand and was sharing it with the kid. He would reach his small hand in, extract a chip, and look at Gwen with the obvious question: Can I eat this? And of course, Gwen would smile and nod every time. Jack couldn't help remarking how good Gwen was with kids.

"We'll have to get you some proper food later."

His lip turned downwards in a pout and he grasped the edge of the bag, peering in. Gwen lightly pulled it away and placed it on the desk next to her. "It's not good for you, love."

Jack mirrored Owen's stance. Ianto had made a seat for himself on the couch, his crutches leaning against the side of the ancient piece of furniture. One hand rested on his thigh, massaging it. Guilt bit at Jack for a moment, but a popping sound made him jerk his head back to Gwen.

She was looking at Jack with the most perplexed expression. The kid wasn't in her lap.

"Jack? What the hell just happened?"

* * *


	5. 5

So here it is! Almost a month later . . . sigh. School will be school. Thanks again to **DeMarcos**!

* * *

Ianto regretted coming. Somewhat. He wasn't doing anything here he couldn't do just as well at his flat. While Gwen tapped rapidly away at a keyboard — her fingers performing a dance he associated more with Tosh than the ex-cop — Ianto sat on the couch. As Jack went back and forth between the computer and the med bay, Ianto sat on the couch. They were all frantically trying to find the kid, and all Ianto could do to help was stay right where he was.

How frustrating.

Ianto glanced at his watch and was appalled to see that it was three minutes past the starting time of his physical therapy appointment. It also didn't help that the therapist's office was at least a ten minute drive away.

"Jack?"

"Yes?" he shouted from somewhere near the conference room.

"I don't want to be an inconvenience, but I'm late for my appointment."

Jack growled loudly. He hopped rather noisily up the stairs and came to a stop in front of Ianto, his hands on his hips. He sighed. "Where is it?"

"St. Helen's Hospital. I'd drive myself —"

"No. You can't do anything to hurt your leg. We still need you." After a brief pause, he added, "_I_ still need you."

Ianto couldn't ignore the admission. Jack still felt guilty about the whole thing. Ianto suspected he always would, and nothing he could do or say — short of going back in time and preventing the whole thing from happening — would change that.

Ianto smiled warmly at Jack. "Alright then." He started to stand; Jack grabbed his arm and helped. "Thanks."

Jack nodded. "You don't mind if we drop you off and leave?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Because we need to find that kid . . ."

From the autopsy room, a tray of tools fell down. Owen swore, frustrated. A rapid string of Welsh accent laden apologies followed.

"And Gwen's getting a little stir-crazy."

"Indeed."

Gwen appeared at the top of the stairs. Her hair had become mussed at some point during her frantic search of the Hub. "Jack! He's not here!"

Ianto limped around Jack, heading for the lift. Gwen looked about to cry with frustration. Jack couldn't quite bring himself to feel the same towards the blonde child. Despite that, he walked over and pulled her into a hug.

"We'll find him."

"We better."

Jack chuckled. "Don't worry. You're with the Captain."

"Y'know, the last time you used that line, we fell down a hole."

"And crushed me. I remember. But this isn't about that." He reached into his pocket and withdrew his ring of keys, taking Gwen's hand and dropping them into it. "I'll meet you at the SUV."

"Not planning on running off again, are you?" she said in a light-hearted, attempting-to-be-joking tone. Jack still caught a hint of mistrust.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. C'mon Owen!" she called as she briskly strode past where the medic was still grumbling rather loudly.

"Do I really have to?" It came out more a whine than anything else.

"Yes!" Jack and Gwen called at the same moment. Gwen turned her head to smile at the captain.

Jack watched her disappear around the cog door. She called something to Ianto; they weren't going to wait for Jack and Owen. With a tired sigh, Jack went to stand at the railing above where Owen was avoiding responsibility.

"Come on, Owen." Annoyance coloured Jack's tone. Owen didn't particularly care. The kid could go and die for all he cared. His bloody head hurt too much.

"And what if I don't want to come?"

"Tough. We'll get coffee."

"Morphine'd be better," Owen muttered to himself. Jack heard him regardless of his lowered voice. Jack also decided it was best not to point out to Owen that he shouldn't drink so much if he wasn't willing to deal with the consequences.

Despite his protests, Owen followed. However, he made it quite obvious that he didn't like being dragged back to work. Or chasing after a kid he didn't care about, and who spouted off rather offensive lines. The blonde thing also seemed to completely dislike all members of male persuasion. Although that didn't explain why he seemed not to mind Ianto . . .

"So let me get this straight," Owen said as he and Jack stepped into the lift, "you found him in San Francisco."

"Yes."

"On top of the bloody _Bridge_."

"Mm-hm."

"And when you went to grab 'im, he jumped off."

"Yes."

"So, being the natural hero that you are, you followed him."

Jack nodded, glancing sideways at Owen, waiting for him to work it out.

"You grabbed him, expected to go splat right in front of all those people. But you ended up in the Hub instead. . . . Are you saying he teleported?"

"Well, it definitely wasn't this." He tapped his left wrist. Owen didn't return his smile.

"Right. So the kid can do it, then?"

"There's no other way to explain it."

"Lovely. We've got a small, blonde, alien child who can teleport across continents," the lift doors opened and Owen sighed, "should be pretty easy to find him."

In the car, Gwen wouldn't stop fidgeting. Owen grew steadily more and more annoyed, almost to the point where he wanted to shout at her to stop. The only reason he didn't was because of how much his head pounded. The shouting would only further aggravate the thick throb behind his eyes. With a small sigh, Owen allowed his head to fall against the window. Jack looked at him in the rear view mirror, but Owen's eyes were closed.

A few minutes after that, the car stopped abruptly. Jack mumbled an apology in the general direction of the back seat and cut the engine.

"Want me to walk you in?"

Ianto mutely shook his head. Jack breathed in a way that could have been a sigh and climbed out of the SUV. He went around to Ianto's door, held it open, and offered Ianto a hand. Ianto hesitated for a moment, but accepted it more because he didn't want to hurt Jack's feelings anymore than he already had, than because he actually required the assistance.

"No, thanks. I think you should be more concerned with a disappearing toddler."

Jack grinned. "Either that or Gwen. Just call when you need me to come get you."

"Will do."

Jack stood in front of the black, conspicuous car and watched Ianto's slow progress into the hospital. Again guilt gnawed at the inside of his chest. How could he have let this happen? Ianto was crippled. Rhys was _dead_. Owen was snappier than usual, and would probably remain that way for some time. Gwen seemed to be coping best. . . . But then . . . Tosh. Tosh was gone. For her sake, he hoped she had died as painlessly as possible. What he really wanted was to find her alive. Find her well, functional. Bring her back to the team. Have them start fresh and put the whole incident behind them, like they had done with the cannibals of the countryside. Granted, this was on a much larger scale, but if they could do it once, they could do it again. Right?

Somewhere in the back of his head knew it was very unlikely.

Ianto made it to the doors and went inside without looking back. Jack leaned against the car, sighing. After an almost-too-long moment, he returned to the wheel. Gwen had climbed into the passenger's seat at some point.

"So, any idea how to find him?"

"Can't track the brat using his blood?" Owen offered, still not opening his eyes.

"Not unless you have some fantastic sense of smell you haven't told us about."

"Funny. No. Any better ideas?"

Jack started the car and turned for the way out. "Not yet."

Gwen heaved a dejected sigh. "I just hope he's alright."

"Maybe we could check with the police? See if he's turned up?" Owen attempted not to acknowledge the obvious sadness from Gwen. God, he needed his head not to ache. Made it impossibly difficult to concentrate. He was surprised he could function at all on a single cup of coffee and a stale pastry. Too bad Jack would give him hell for injecting himself with something strong.

"We'll do that."

"Could we get coffee first?" Owen asked. He still sounded irritated.

"Sure."

* * *

Almost two hours and three bad cups of coffee later, the kid had still not been found. Their first check with the police garnered the usual strange looks and sideways-accusatory questions. Owen left in possibly a worse mood than when Jack had dragged him from his flat. Jack didn't seem very pleased, and whether it was because of Owen or because of Gwen's increasingly frantic nature, Owen could not tell. Either way, the three of them weren't particularly enjoying each other's company.

"Jack . . . ," Gwen began, not really sure if she had any new suggestions. "Are you _sure_ we can't modify the SatNav so that it tracks his blood?"

Jack sighed. "Not that I know of. Tosh on the other hand . . ."

"Well Tosh isn't here, so can we please just get on with it? Put up posters offering a reward? 'Missing: Blonde Alien Child With Two Hearts. Last seen being a pain in the ass.' "

Jack stopped walking and turned to face Owen, attempting to wither the shorter man with a glare. "What?" Owen protested. "It's a good idea. People can't refuse a little lost kid."

"How can you be so insensitive?" Gwen accused, throwing her hands in the hair and stomping forward. Owen shrugged and didn't move; Jack continued glaring at him.

"What? Why should I care?"

"I'm not asking you to care. I'm asking you not to be such a jerk." Jack came closer to Owen, reducing the gap between them to half a metre. "Her boyfriend is dead. And another thing she cares for has just gone missing. How do you think she feels?"

"How do you think _I_ feel?"

"Hung-over. Don't drink so much."

"Oh piss off!"

Jack sighed and started after Gwen.

The absence of the nameless child hurt Gwen more than she thought was possible. She had just lost Rhys. Why did this sweet, innocent little kid have to disappear too? If he could go across continents so easily, and with _Jack_, he could be anywhere. What if he were somewhere dangerous? A foreign place where no one was _nearly_ as nice as she was to him? What if someone hurt him? Gwen didn't think she could stand to see that happen.

It also didn't feel like that was where he had gone. Something told her he was still in Cardiff. Or somewhere in Wales. But . . . wherever it was, it felt close.

And then it hit her. She turned around abruptly, slamming right into Jack's chest. He caught her by both elbows.

"Yes?"

"Is there any way to track him using the scan results? Maybe some residual . . . _something_ we can work off of?"

"Owen?"

"That might just work."

Back at the Hub, Gwen pawed through the stacks of papers, not sure of what to do wither herself. Owen had pulled up the scan results and Jack was attempting to programme them into a handheld SatNav device. Apparently, synchronizing the results with the kid's actual live body was more difficult in practice than concept.

There was still quite a bit of mess. Jack had only managed to hook up three computers. The rest of the monitors remained black, dead. Gwen wondered why. Perhaps he had simply not gotten around to it . . . it was quite possible the Hub had been a complete and total mess when he returned, and it had taken him . . . nearly two months to fix it all up again . . .

"Ha! Take _that_ you stubborn piece of twenty-first century technology!" came Jack's exclamation from the med bay. A few seconds later, he was at the top of the stairs and swinging his coat on.

"You found him?"

"Yes." Triumph pervaded Jack's voice and smile. Gwen openly returned the grin.

"Well, where is he?"

"Somewhere near the edge of town. Abandoned church."

"Well what are we waiting for? Let's go! Owen! Hurry up!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Jesus, you don't need to _shout_ so much."

Gwen was nearly bouncing in the lift. It hardly improved when they reached the front office; she all but sprinted to the SUV, shifting her feet impatiently as Jack walked agonizingly slowly. Just as Jack slipped the keys in the ignition, his phone rang. He snapped it open, glanced at the number, and stuck it up against his ear. He had removed his earpiece to his pocket at some point over the past two hours, and hadn't gotten around to putting it back on.

"Ready to be picked up? . . . Yes, we did. We're going to get him now — no, I can get you first. The hospital's on the way."

"Not really," Owen mumbled from the back. Jack tossed a discontented "be quiet" at the medic.

"Okay. See you in ten."

* * *

"You have got to be joking. He's in _there?_" Ianto asked, astonished. The building looked ready to collapse on itself! What daft notion had possessed the kid for him to want to come here?

"According to this, yes. Unless something is mimicking his entire biological system. That," Jack tapped the screen, and an outline of the decrepit church appeared; there were little white splotches outline in red, "and his heat signature hasn't left here in over two hours."

"Are those bats?" Gwen said from near Jack's shoulder.

"And rats."

Jack's affirmation only spawned further concern somewhere in the centre of Gwen's torso. Owen's lips twitched, falling short of a grimace. _Rats_.

"Is he safe?"

"Not likely." Owen kicked at a chunk of brick. It landed in a dead bush accompanied by dry cracklings.

"Well, let's go get him." Gwen started forward.

Jack nudged Owen forward. Owen shot him with hard, annoyed eyes but walked next to Gwen, only to avoid further prodding from the captain. Now Jack could talk with Ianto without Owen adding in his _wonderful_, immensely helpful sarcastic remarks.

"Do you want to stay in the SUV?"

Ianto thought about it for a moment. On one hand, he'd love to come, not have to sit out anymore. On the other hand, his leg was aching rather painfully from therapy and he didn't have any Vicodin with him. His therapist had also been very adamant and specific that he was cleared for light labour _only_. Stumbling around a crumbling building probably didn't fall under that category.

"I probably should."

"Here're the keys. I'll have my phone the entire time." As an after thought, Jack slipped his earpiece on, replacing his phone in his coat pocket.

Ianto smiled. "Jack, I've been able to stay out of trouble for two months. I can handle myself for a few minutes."

Jack didn't sound convinced. "If I told you to leave, would you?"

"Of course."

"Okay. See you soon, hopefully."

"Jack!" Gwen called from the door. One had fallen off and the other hung sideways, turned inwards. Owen had already disappeared inside.

"Coming! Stay safe, Ianto."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Jack grinned and trotted off to Gwen. She looked twitchier than earlier, if that was possible.

"Hey. Calm down. We'll find him."

"Yeah, of course."

Dark conquered light. Despite the holes in the ceiling and walls, it was dark enough to need a torch, and Jack hadn't brought his. He decided Owen needed more work. "Would you be a dear and get a few torches from the SUV?"

"Of course," Owen replied in the same overly saccharine voice.

He returned with the torches a few minutes later. Jack tossed one to Gwen and she promptly started forward.

"Whoa, wait a second. Don't go running off into the dark. Remember what happened last time?"

"We fell down a hole. Now can we please get this over with?" Owen shouldered past Jack. And before Jack could check the SatNav to tell Gwen where to start looking, Gwen snatched it from his hand and hurried after Owen. With an annoyed huff of breath, Jack walked after them. He couldn't keep allowing them to get away with just doing what they wanted. Regardless if he _had_ more or less abandoned them for nearly two months, he was still their boss.

Two round beams of light bobbed through rotted pews. Debris sprawled everywhere, making a clear, navigable path impossible to find. Some of the old benches lay on their sides, the slots on the back long devoid of any religious books. Abandoned faith, dead prayers lost in the sagging rafters. Why this building had remained standing for so long was a mystery.

Gwen, at the front, stumbled over something. She managed to keep her balance, but the torch clattered to the ground.

"Well that's definitely new."

The small, white light had found a corpse, no more than a few hours dead. Owen prodded a bare arm and the flesh indented; rigor mortis hadn't even set in.

"Not even in rigor. And still warm. He can't have been dead more than twenty minutes."

Jack drew his gun, repositioning his torch so that wherever he moved his gun, there was light. "Be careful. Owen, Can you tell how he died?"

Owen ran his torch slowly over the body. The face was dirty, except two lines running down his cheeks. Tear tracks. Aside from the dirt, the face was unharmed. The throat was whole; there were no holes in his chest. He wore a once-white T-shirt that was now soiled with sweat and general grime. Obviously, a weevil had not been responsible for his death. On to the waist, the jeans equally as dirty as the shirt. Slightly worn knees. Only there was blood on the left leg . . . . Owen lifted the bottom of the pants and hastily dropped them again. Gwen had been looking away and wondered what had made him do so.

"What? Owen, what is it?"

Owen sighed. "Foot's gone."

"So he bled to death," Jack said.

"Yeah. Looks like he tried to crawl away."

"But from where."

"Well," Gwen said in a low, chocked voice, "we could always follow the trail of blood." She pointed out the dark path. It led past the pulpit to an open door; the floor dropped out of site, indicating stairs.

-

"He made it pretty far, if that's any consolation," Owen said. Gwen didn't acknowledge him.

The three of them stood in a line in a very dismal, grim room. Crypts in general are not very cheerful places. This one, however, was even more depressing than most. The squares, behind which where the ashes of loved family and friends from decades past, no longer carried any names or dates. Years of the damp weather had worn the etchings down to bare shadows. Dead identities lost forever. The place would have felt dismal even without the two bodies. One — female, possibly, if the long wisps of hair were any indication — was in late stages of decay. The flesh had sunken away, and the ribs, yellow still with a last clinging layer of blood and veins, were clearly visible. The other body looked almost alive; he must have died recently. From where they stood, it was evident he had been shot once in the shoulder. A considerable amount of blood had pooled around him.

Then Owen shouted, "He's still breathing!"

Jack tapped a finger to the phone at his ear. "Ianto, call an ambulance, and check all missing persons over the last six months. Caucasian male, dark hair, medium height, aged anywhere from twenty to thirty." He referred to the one upstairs. "And from the last year, any women within the same age group."

"_Will do, sir._"

"Thank you, Ianto."

"_Don't mention it._"

Jack walked over and knelt opposite Owen. Gwen still hadn't moved; one hand covered her mouth and nose. She looked halfway between disappointed and frightened.

"He might make it. But he's lost a lot of blood."

"Ianto? How far out are the paramedics?"

"_Estimated time of arrival is four minutes._"

"Owen?"

"Maybe."

Gwen didn't quite know what to do. The kid should have been here! Gwen wanted to leave the room, but something stopped her. . . . Perhaps it was the strange feeling that something was behind her, just outside her vision. It quite unsettled her; she wanted to turn around but dreaded what she might find.

Something tugged on the leg of her pants, just above the knee. Convinced it would be some ankle-biting creature, she slowly looked down.

And was quite relieved to see the kid. He looked up at her with wide, sad eyes and a trembling pout. Gwen quickly plucked him off the ground and into her arms. He looked ready to cry.

"Shh-shh-shh, it's okay. You're safe now."

He sniffled and buried his head in her shoulder. Gwen rubbed his back soothingly.

Jack looked up at the sound of Gwen's voice. "Where did he come from?!"

"Does it matter? We have him now."

"Why don't you go take him upstairs? Point the paramedics in our direction while you're at it?"

"Of course!"

Halfway up the stairs, the child lifted his head to look at Gwen.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"I'm scared," he whispered, mispronouncing the "r."

* * *

A blast of dying sirens met Gwen as she took a different path to the door, deliberately avoiding the one-footed corpse. Even though her eyes had adjusted to the gloom some time ago, it was still dark enough that she had to be careful where she placed her foot. She didn't have a free hand; her gun had been stuck unceremoniously in her back pocket and her torch left with Jack.

Voices bubbled from the moulding front doors. Two paramedics in green uniforms appeared at the front of a group of people. Between them, they carried a stretcher, upon which a large torch and a box of whatever they would need to treat the man downstairs resting on top. Ianto stood behind them, pointing in the general direction of where the crypt was. He must have pulled up a building map while he waited in the car.

Behind the paramedics came forensics officers decked out in white suits from head to foot. As Gwen made it to the door, she saw police had set up a yellow-taped perimeter. There had to be at least eight vehicles there already, excluding the SUV. Gwen went straight to the familiar black car and opened the back. She tried to put the small blonde down, but he clung to her neck with the absolute strength of a terrified three-year-old.

Ianto spoke from behind her. "Is he alright?"

"I think so. Just a bit scared. And, you know . . . seeing the b-o-d-i-e-s. . . ." Gwen just hoped that he couldn't figure out what it spelled.

The paramedics were coming out. Apparently she had been struggling with the kid longer than she thought. Gwen turned around so that the kid would be looking into the car, if he ever lifted his head from her shoulder again. Jack and Owen closely followed them.

"Owen, go with them to the hospital. If he dies, make sure we get the body. If he doesn't . . . stay there until he comes around."

"That could take days!"

"I'll make sure to bring you some food then. Go. Now."

Owen scowled, not moving for a second. Then, with a half wary look at the kid, he rolled his eyes and groused his entire way over to the ambulance.

Jack turned to Gwen, a sociable smile on his face. "Is he okay?"

"Physically, yes."

"Good." He hesitated a moment, deciding what he wanted done with the two bodies. Probably would be best to have them taken back to the Hub. . . . He could always "politely ask" to borrow one of the coroners for a half hour. That way, Gwen and Ianto could go back to the Hub, and the bodies could be put in the morgue until Owen was free to examine them.

"Okay. You two go back to the Hub and keep an eye on the kid. I'll stay here and have the bodies transferred into our control."

Gwen was about to agree when Ianto interrupted her. "Actually, sir, I think it would be better if the little one stayed with Gwen. The Hub isn't child-safe and there's nothing for him to do there." He turned to Gwen. "Perhaps you could take him back to your flat? Have him watch cartoons or," Ianto turned a "how could you ever show him that?" look on Jack, and spoke without looking back to Gwen, "a children's film?"

"I don't see why not."

"And what are you going to do, Ianto?"

Ianto shrugged. Jack saw past the nonchalance; Ianto was in pain and hadn't brought his medication with him. Jack decided not to ask about it. If Ianto wanted to avoid talking about it, so be it. "If Gwen wants me to stay, I can."

"Sounds like a plan." Jack handed the keys to Gwen. Somehow, she managed to pry the kid off her neck. However, he refused to go more than two feet from her and ended up sitting in the front seat.

"Sweetie, you can't sit in the front. How about sitting with Ianto?"

He vehemently shook his head. Gwen sighed, glancing back at Ianto. He sat directly behind the kid, his crutches laid along the floor. He stood, hunched over, and picked the kid up with only a bit of effort. Ianto brought him onto his lap, speaking softly. The kid fussed for a moment; Ianto tickled him along the ribs. After a few seconds, the same giggles from hours before filled the car and lightened the mood considerably.

* * *

For what had to be at _least_ the twelfth time in at least ten minutes, Owen cursed Jack.

The man's name was David Afghan, and he was twenty-seven with nothing to his name but an impressive amount of drug use. Owen was surprised there had even been enough of his brain left to get him through three years of uni.

There was one very unsettling thing. He could have bled to death, but he hadn't; he had been shot barely fifteen minutes before they had found him. There also had been no gun anywhere in that crypt. That meant that whoever shot him could have sill been in the church while they were there. Any one of them could have been shot . . . the kid could have died. Owen only felt a small, almost unrecognisable twinge of remorse at that thought. Gwen definitely would have been a wreck had the blonde sadist bit the dust. That meant the timelines of Torchwood and the would-be murderer had a very close crossing.

But the kid hadn't died, and neither, it seemed, would this junkie bloke. Owen wondered what the rest of them were doing and itched to leave. Poking at those two bodies would certainly give him more answers than this sleeping one before him could. Even when he woke up, Owen very much doubted his usefulness. He had probably been making a purchase when the dealer decided he didn't want David's money.

However, Owen knew that wasn't true. David had been chained to the floor of the crypt. Chained to a bright, shiny, _new_ steel loop bolted and welded into the floor. Unless he had some funky bondage-slave deal with someone, he couldn't have been there by his own will. Someone had brought him down there, to a room with a year-old corpse and another living person. And there had been at least one saw. How else could that man in the middle of the church have lopped his foot off?

Saws . . . left ankle missing, left ankle shackled. Dark, abandoned place with low lighting. New loops bolted into the floor, their only purpose to restrain. Owen hadn't gotten the greatest look around the room, but now that he thought of it, there had been other things that were too new to be a coincidence. Owen unconsciously rubbed his own left ankle against the leg of his chair.

Everything clicked at that point. If the kid hadn't gone missing, they probably wouldn't know until they had been grabbed again. But the similarities were painful. Only the location was different. Whoever had put them underground in London had done something similar to three people in Cardiff. He was following them.

Owen stood from his chair at David's beside so quickly that it toppled over, startling the patient sharing the room. He had to tell Jack, _now_, before one of them was grabbed. Oh, there was no doubt that they were targets. Why else set up tasks so close to where they lived and worked?

Owen jogged out of the hospital, turning on his phone and dialling Jack as he went.

"_Jack_!" Owen shouted in his earpiece. Jack didn't wince away from the loud sound

He already knew what was coming. He had just found it himself.

"I know, Owen. There's a tape player here."


	6. 6

Holy crap! An on-time update! No one in particular to thank this chapter . . . just the Internet :D I have to apologise for not updating regullarly. I've been sick and miserable, and trying to do school work. So . . . yeah . . . life happens, no?

* * *

"Hello David. Right now you are probably wondering where you are. I'll tell you where you might be. You might be in the room where you die, or you may be in the room of your salvation."

"All your life you have been given incredible opportunities. You chose ignore those opportunities and to abuse your privileges. You have spent more money on drugs in a single day than most people will see in a month. I think it appropriate you die in a place as forsaken and dark as your soul."

"With you is another man. His name is Jonas Wagner, and he is a hard-working man with a wife and four children."

"In order to leave this room alive, you must sacrifice a life better than your own. You must kill this honest man before your two hours is up. After that . . . game over."

"Let the game begin."

Owen shuddered. Jack wanted to throw the tape player down disgust, but knew they would need it later.

"We need to get Gwen and Ianto. No _way_ is this just a coincidence." Owen stared at the tape player as he spoke, trying not to allow his mind to wander what happened the last time he made the acquaintance with identical silver rectangles.

Jack sighed. "Yeah. Then we need to talk to David."

* * *

"How about this one?"

Another shake of the blonde head. Gwen sighed and moved on to the next cereal box. The boy vehemently shook his head before Gwen could even ask if he wanted the food.

"Do you even want cereal?"

He shook his head again, then removed his fist from his mouth to point down the aisle past Ianto. Gwen followed his finger and saw he was pointing to the fresh produce. She was relieved; the kid wanted to eat, and he wanted something healthy. She would have no reason to feel guilty feeding someone else's child carrots and apples.

Upon reaching aforementioned produce, a single pudgy finger directed her towards a bag of purple grapes.

"So is this what you want?"

He nodded and returned to clasping his hands behind her neck. Gwen worried about what he had seen. Although, she would much rather prefer he hadn't seen anything at all. Finding a dead body was one thing; seeing it at so young an age had a completely different effect. Gwen hated the fact that she couldn't do anything to help. Unless . . .

"Ianto?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know the affect of retcon on three-year-olds?"

"I don't think it would be a good idea. Keep in mind that he isn't human." He drew a deep breath and brought one hand up to massage under his eyes.

"You okay?"

"People keep staring," he said, close to her ear in a whisper. "Let's go, shall we?"

-

Gwen, at the last moment, had snagged a bottle of water and was now using it to do a quick rinse of a string of grapes. The kid watched her solemnly and took the food wordlessly when she was finished. His eyelids drooped a little as he prised the sweet grapes from their green stems. Gwen moved him into the back, leaving the dripping bag of fruit with Ianto; the kid scooted a little closer to Ianto, his eyes on the grapes. Gwen then climbed into the driver's seat and took a moment to gather her thoughts.

The sun was only a few hours away from setting. They had found the kid, but what they found with him was far from comforting.

"It's too close to home," Gwen muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she sighed, "just a long day."

"Agreed."

Gwen turned the key in the ignition, letting the car idle for a minute. "So, your place first?"

"Please."

Barely a hundred yards out of the car park, Jack's voice popped into their ear pieces. "Gwen, Ianto, I need you two back at the Hub. Now."

"Jack, what's wrong? Did you find something?" Gwen had been looking forward to curling up in her bed.

Jack paused for a moment before answering. "Just get down here, okay? I want you three safe."

* * *

"If he saw what happened, then whoever did it will want him. You can't stay at your flat. _He_ can't stay there. The Hub is the only safe place."

Gwen threw her hands up in frustration. "Okay then! So what are we going to do about sleeping arrangements?"

"There's a few cots—"

"Oh no, I will not sleep on a cot when I have a perfectly good flat not ten minutes away! And what about the kid? This place wasn't exactly designed for children. What'll he do, play with Myfanwy?"

As if adding to Gwen's argument, the pterodactyl squawked loudly. From his seat on a lowered computer chair, the kid giggled and clapped his hands together.

"I'd have to agree with Gwen," Ianto put in from his seat not too far from the child. Ianto was making sure the kid didn't stumble upon any website less benign than Neopets. "Military cots aren't exactly known for comfort."

Jack sighed. "Fine. We'll compromise. Owen!" Jack called for the medic; Owen trudged up from the autopsy he was in the middle of. "The three of you can stay at someone's flat. Gwen, Owen, sleep in shifts. Keep everything locked and take your guns with you. We are _not_ taking any chances this time."

Gwen nodded, triumphant. Owen grumbled "let me finish" and retreated to the body of Jonas Wagner.

"When he's done, you can go."

"And what will you do once we're gone?" Gwen asked, certain that it wasn't a good idea for any of them to be alone.

"Stay here."

"I mean besides that."

The captain shrugged. "I'll figure something out."

He turned to walk back to his office, but Gwen called after him.

"What was the Hub like when you got back?"

Jack paused for too long a moment. Slowly, he turned to face her. "Why do you want to know?"

His quiet tone offset Gwen. "I, well, I was just wondering, since not all the computers are hooked up, I figured maybe something had been wrong . . ."

"You're right. Something was wrong. The whole place was one huge mess. The glass from up there," he pointed to the boardroom, "was all over the floor. I had to replace it. Took a while finding glass the right size. . . . Then all the computers had to be put back, rewired, and probably still need to be reprogrammed. By the time I got all that done, there was a rift spike in San Francisco, and now here we are."

"Oh. Well, you've done a great job so far. The computers can wait . . .," her voice grew smaller and smaller, so faint that the last came out in but a whisper, "until Tosh gets back."

Jack drew a deep breath. "If Tosh gets back." He nodded to himself. "When she gets back."

* * *

By the time they were in the SUV, the kid had fallen asleep. On Gwen. She had managed to settle him across her chest, his head resting on her shoulder; his slack face was untroubled. Jack had insisted on driving, leading Owen to grumble even more. Everyone else, for the most part, ignored the medic, and eventually he folded his arms and glared out the window.

Jack had also insisted Ianto occupy the front seat, another thing that miffed Owen. Not only was Owen now more or less assisting in _babysitting_, but he was sitting behind Jack with minimal leg room. Owen, however, was all talk and no slap right now, and when Gwen proposed they get some coffee, he didn't argue. Instead, he looked quite grateful of the suggestion. To make it even better, Ianto offered his warm-caffeinated-beverage-making prowess once they were settled at whichever flat. That seemed to further lighten Owen's grey mood.

"So, whose place are we going to sleep at?" Gwen said it hoping that someone else would offer up their flat. Hers was still embarrassingly messy.

"Mine?" Ianto said, somewhat timidly. "I've a spare bed, and someone can have to sofa."

"Sounds cosy," Owen said as he sat up, blinking tiredly. "God I need some coffee."

"Gwen?" Jack glanced at her in the mirror.

"Could we stop by my place first?"

"Of course."

-

Gwen paused at her door, key hovering just in front of the lock. She still had the kid in one arm. He hadn't so much as stirred when she extricated herself from the car.

"Gwen?"

She shook her head, jammed the key in. "Sorry. Just a little tired."

She turned the key and pushed the door open. Groping along the wall, fumbling for the light switch, took longer than it should have. When she finally did manage to flick the switch, she cringed. Apparently her mess had leached from the main part of the flat: shoes, socks, and a few coats were strewn all about the entryway.

"Busy lately?"

"Yeah. Just a bit."

The living room was painfully worse. The blankets from the couch had fallen half on the coffee table, half on the floor. Magazines and coasters were strewn everywhere; a vase on the table near the window held long-dead, dry, black flowers. The air smelled stale. Gwen probably hadn't opened a window in over a month. At least there hadn't been much food garbage to stink up the place: the only food related smell was that of old crisps and freezer-burnt vegetables.

Gwen suddenly handed the sleeping child to Jack. "Wait here." And dashed off towards her bedroom to gather a change of clothes and toiletries into a bag.

For a moment, indecision struck Jack not unlike a rabid badger. What the _hell_ was he supposed to do with a sleeping child? A child that liked to see him in pain? Would putting him on the couch wake him? And if he were to wake up, what vulnerable area of Jack's person would he go after first? Definitely needing to be relieved of this particular responsibility, Jack was caught in a rare moment of complete stillness. And it was in that frozen second that the kid clamped onto his coat. Jack looked down and was surprised to see the kid's eyes open.

"Don't let them hurt me," he whispered, cutely — or what would be cute in a different situation — mispronouncing his R.

Jack couldn't be sure if the kid was quoting another horror movie, or if he actually was finally speaking properly.

"Who? Who wants to hurt you?"

The kid pulled himself farther onto Jack's shoulder. His sob was muffled by the thick coat. Watery brown eyes met Jack. Still in a hoarse whisper, "_He wants to play a game._"

"_What_?" It came out incredulous.

The blonde head whipped back and forth in furious denial. A few seconds later, he started bawling. It surprised Jack that something so small could make that much noise.

Gwen appeared from her bedroom. Her face showed a look somewhere between confusion with the situation and anger at Jack for apparently causing it.

"What happened?!" She held her arms out to the child. He slid easily from Jack's arms to Gwen's chest. "It's all right sweetie. Shh-shh-shh, you're safe." As she rubbed his back, she nodded her head at a large black duffel bag sitting at the end of the hall. "Could you get that for me?"

Jack straightened his back and shoulders, hiding the sudden fear that surged through his system at the kid's words. "Certainly, Madam."

-

"Why the _hell_ is he crying?" Were the first words out of Owen's mouth. Gwen glared at him and attempted to quiet the child.

"I don't see you trying to help," she snapped.

"I would, if he for a second would try not insulting me!" he bit back. Gwen opened her mouth to offer up a snarky rebuttal, but Jack cut her off.

"Enough! Owen, stop it. Gwen, leave him alone. For God's sake! You two are bickering like children."

Owen _hmph_ed loudly and went back to passing his disgruntled look between Jack and the window. The remainder of the drive was silent. Gwen managed to soothe the kid. His means of expressing woe had reduced themselves to sniffles and hiccups.

-

After Ianto unlocked the door, Jack held out an arm to stop him.

"Wait. Owen," Jack jerked his head at the open door. He had drawn his gun and was holding it so that the muzzle pointed at the ground.

Owen went in, turning lights on as he went. Jack followed closely behind, opening any doors he came to. It almost surprised him how _clean_ the place was. Jack shook his head. On crutches, with pins in his leg, and still Ianto cleaned. And did it well.

"All clear."

"You can come in!" Jack yelled from the office / guest room.

"Gwen, go ahead and take the spare room," Ianto said as he limped down to hall into his bedroom. "Although I must warn you all that there _is_ only one ensuite."

Gwen smiled. "Shouldn't be too much of a problem."

"Ianto? How about some of that coffee?" Owen called after him.

Ianto sighed and quickly downed the Vicodin. He should have taken it hours ago; a deep, steady throb had taken an unrelenting grip on his leg since after his physical therapy. This was going to be a long night.

As Ianto emerged from his room, Jack lightly slapped Owen on the back of his head.

"Oi!"

"Be nice. Remember: Keep everything locked and sleep in shifts. Owen, you first."

"Why me?!"

"Because I said so. Now," he clapped his hands together and said in a faux-chipper voice, "I'll be off."

* * *

The Hub was exactly as he had left it. Lights on, what computers were hooked up running the analysis of the tape. They had finished some time while they were out. The results disappointed Jack. Just an ordinary miniature cassette tape, available at any electronics store. Hell, available at any market. The cassette player presented an identical situation. The two could have been purchased by any number of people; Jack wasn't even lucky enough for the player to be an outdated model. _That_ would have been at least moderately traceable.

Alas, things involving Torchwood were never that simple. Or logical. And right now, they were, after all, being targeted by a psychopath. A brilliant psychopath who had not only managed to capture all of them, but had, in effect, wiped their memories; none of them remembered _how_ they were captured.

For a little while, Jack had entertained the idea that the person could possibly be ex-Torchwood and knew how to brew his own retcon. Jack hadn't excluded the possibility, but he wasn't exactly favouring it. He had been through all the personnel files of Torchwood members from a year before the Canary Wharf incident to the present; anyone that could have possibly been a candidate for psychopathic homicide wasn't even alive any more.

Jack had also considered the possibility that an alien was doing this. That had, however, died rather quickly when he found there had been no significant rift activity at the time it started. Nor had there been any evidence in the government files he checked of anything extraterrestrial making an appearance.

So the only thing that left was a genuine psychopath with a thorough knowledge of Torchwood. A genius with an unsettling knack for torture.

Jack sighed and shrugged out of his coat, draping it over the back of a computer chair. He sat down and began his query: looking for cases similar to theirs. He should have done it immediately after he righted the Hub, but . . . Jack shook his head and tried not to think about it.

As the search progressed, Jack grew increasingly uncomfortable. He realized it would be better to explain it to the whole team, but he didn't want to wake any of them; instead he started a new file and clearly marked it, promoting the reading of it by putting post-it notes on each of their desks.

The first case had been very similar to the one they had stumbled upon this afternoon.

This particular case had involved two males. Each had been chained at opposite ends of a room below an abandoned house. A clock had been found in the room, as had a cassette player, tapes, and an empty box. Initial police reports theorised that the gun, bullet, and cigarettes in the room had come from that box. Two hacksaws had also been found; one had evidently been used by a Doctor Lawrence Gordon. By the looks of it, he had sawed off his left foot in order to remove the shackle keeping him chained to the wall. He hadn't made it very far out the door before he died. The second man, Adam, had been shot once in the shoulder. That had not, however, killed him. He died of asphyxiation. The gunshot also didn't account for the large amount of blood found in the middle of the room; after that blood had been analysed, it was discovered that it was actually pig's blood. There was no other evidence to suggest a pig had been killed or wounded there. Which could have helped sum the whole thing up to just some weird cult ritual.

Adam, however, had not been strangled immediately after he had been shot. In fact, his body hadn't even been found very quickly; it hadn't been found until a few months later. And that hadn't been until another few bodies had been found.

The second major case had involved a group of people, all in that house above where Adam and Doctor Lawrence had been found. But at the time they couldn't have known that there was a series of passageways beneath the old structure.

Everyone in the house had been convicted of something, with the exception of three people: One girl barely out of high school had been kidnapped — her kidnapper had been one of the people in the house. The other was a young woman named Amanda, who had recently been released from a hospital after attempting suicide; she, however, had been convicted previously on drug possession charges. The third was a sixteen-year-old kid, Daniel. His father, Eric Matthews, had been the officer to arrest all of the other five people, and Amanda Young. That had been the connection.

The eight of them had been poisoned with a nerve gas. Well, all of them except Eric Matthews' son and Amanda, for some reason they hadn't figured out. One man had died in the first room from a gunshot wound to the head; the gun had been behind a door that they were told not to open. One man had burned to death in an incinerator, in an attempt to get the antidote. That was what they were supposed to do: work together and find antidotes. Otherwise, after two hours they would bleed to death from every orifice. They had also been told, on a tape, that the front door would open in three hours. But by that time they all would be dead.

The Latina girl had bled to death — after reaching into a box that contained the antidote. The two slots where she put her hands had been lined with razors. The girl that had been kidnapped died from the gas. Official coroner's report said her heart stopped. A black man had died from some blunt force trauma to the head. A bat studded with nails had been found in the room. In that room, there had been a safe. The safe had covered a hole with stairs leading to the passageways. Amanda and Eric Matthews' son had escaped down that way.

However, they were followed by a big, burly convicted drug dealer. He would have killed them with a knife he found, except that his throat was slit by a piece of glass. The glass had come from a broken two-way mirror. The mirror had been broken by one of the room's previous occupants: Adam.

The police file had a transcription of all the tapes found. Jack read over them at least three times apiece before this . . . horror and ingeniousness of John's hit him.

But this had been in America. What would make the man want to come after _them_? The file on John said he had an inoperable frontal lobe tumour. Could he even be alive anymore? If he was, in fact, dead, then someone on this side of the pond was just as brilliant and just as sick.

By the time Jack had finished compiling a file for the rest of his group, it was nearing five a.m., and he hadn't had coffee since before they found the kid at the crumbling church. It was time to take a breather, stretch his legs, maybe go pick up everyone else and get an early start. He turned in the chair, going to scoop up his coat.

Something clamped over his mouth. He got a glimpse of a black coat as his vision dimmed and a feeling of cottony weightlessness filled him.

"Hello Jack."

* * *

To be continued . . .


	7. 7

_Let the game begin_.

* * *

The soft brown material of Gwen's pyjamas peeked out from under the light blue duvet. Her hair, quite dishevelled, hung over one side of her face; one strand just under her nose hovered for a few seconds with every exhale. Closed eyes, slack face, she looked absolutely at peace. Not worried by anything that had happened, not worrying about things to come, and no concern with their current situation. A rare quiet moment after her four-hour shift of wakefulness. Gwen had almost been disappointed that the kid hadn't stayed up with her. Although, she didn't exactly blame him. He'd been through a lot.

The duvet fell away from her legs. Soon thereafter her torso became exposed. The rush of cold air made her pull her knees up to her chest in an attempt to retain some warmth. Still mostly asleep, Gwen groaned and turned over. Her back twitched. Then it twitched again, in the same spot. Gwen frowned, awareness beginning to seep past her heavy eyelids.

"Gwen."

The breath puffed in her ear; Gwen swatted at what she thought must be a fly.

"Gwe-_en_." A more insistent hiss.

Gwen rubbed her eyes and turned back over. The kid was standing at the edge of the bed, dressed in a shirt borrowed from Ianto. Even though it would have been a comfortable fit on Ianto, it reached nearly to the kid's ankles. He had slept fine, though, so he didn't seem bothered by it. His clothes were currently in Ianto's dryer.

"What is it sweetie?"

He tugged on her sleeve, pointing at the half-open door.

"Do you want some food?"

He nodded, popping a thumb in his mouth. Gwen gently removed it and cooed, "Sweetheart, that isn't good for your teeth."

He pouted; Gwen rolled off the bed and swept him into her arms. "How about we get you some breakfast?"

Much to her surprise, they were met by the sounds of sizzling food. Ianto stood in front of the stove, commanding a formidable two-piece-fleet of pans. One had a mass of yellow clumps flecked with red and green; bacon bubbled merrily in the other. Ianto only had one crutch attached. The other leaned against the side of the refrigerator.

"Hello!" he greeted jovially. "I hope you like scrambled eggs and bacon. And there's cereal and grapes on the table if he wants some." Ianto nodded at the kid, flipped a strip of bacon without even looking. It landed on its other side and popped grease into the air.

"Of course! I don't think I could have gotten a better meal at home." She smiled warmly at him and walked over to the table, setting the kid down in front of a white bowl. A box of simple, lightly-glazed-with-honey cereal and a spoon stood to one side, a small carton of milk on the other. A clear glass bowl of grapes sat in the middle of the four-person table.

Owen emerged then, stretching. He sat opposite Gwen. "Ianto, how about some of that coffee?"

"Already made. It's on the counter."

Yawning, Owen stood and plodded into the kitchen. He retrieved a white mug, matching the kid's bowl, and snatched up the clear pot of fresh coffee. Steam rose as he poured it into the mug, and he stuck his nose above the aromatic warmth. "This is exactly the reason why we keep you around."

"Wouldn't dream of anything else. Bacon?"

"Two please."

"Soft or crunchy?"

"Crisp."

Ianto flicked two of the darker strips onto an awaiting plate. "Eggs?"

"Yeah."

He added a yellow pile to the plate and handed it to Owen. The medic took it with a nod and went back to the table, tentatively sipping his hot coffee. The kid paused in his eating for a moment, glaring evilly at Owen.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Relax. You'll live longer."

Owen slammed his coffee onto the table. Ianto sighed and sent him a levelling look over the chest-height counter separating the kitchen from the table. If Owen kept that up, he would stain the table. Owen ignored it.

"_What_ is his problem?"

"He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't be so hard on him! He's just a child, Owen."

"I think you're an asshole. No, no, let me correct that, an immature asshole."

Owen looked about ready to break something. Probably the kid's neck. Hoping to avoid infanticide, Gwen quickly scolded the child. His eyebrows drew together so tightly, the ends nearly met. For some unknown — or even explicable — reason, the kid hated Owen. Gwen hoped he only liked tormenting the medic, and didn't actually _hate_ him, but with the way the kid was behaving . . .

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the stern, angered expression cleared from his face. He returned to eating the soggy cereal, oblivious to the incredulous looks Owen exchanged with Gwen and Ianto.

"What — he — ugh! Never mind." Owen moodily sipped his coffee, glaring over the rim of the cup. The kid glanced up, swallowed, and grinned, exposing all of his white, adorably small teeth.

The sound of metal scraping on metal came from the kitchen. Ianto hobbled around the chest-height counter / wall, plate in hand. He pulled out the end chair and sat, leaning his crutches against the wall.

"How're the eggs?"

"Amazing," Gwen said from behind her hand; her left cheek was puffed out, so filled with the food.

Ianto smiled and started on his own breakfast.

-

The kid finished first. He pushed his empty bowl away and folded his hands in her lap. He waited patiently for Gwen to finish the last of her coffee. When she replaced the cup on the table, he pulled on her sleeve.

"Yes?"

He pulled on the huge borrowed shirt, and then pointed in the general area behind him, towards the bedrooms.

"Do you want your clothes?"

He nodded. Gwen patted his leg and stood. "Come on then. Let's get you dressed."

When he finished pulling his shirt over his sleep-mussed head, Gwen opened the door and ushered him out. She herself had donned a simple — _clean_ — black t-shirt with a splash of white design sweeping along the neck and right shoulder. She wore loose, comfortable jeans and — for the first time in nearly nine weeks — matching socks. She would have to forgo a shower. She tugged a hand through her tangled hair. She had done her best, patting it down with water. At least it no longer looked as if she had just had a quick morning shag.

Ianto was standing by the door. It appeared that he had been waiting for them.

"Jack's not answering his phone."

* * *

As they stood in front of the cog door, a sense of dread permeated Gwen. A single thought refused to leave her mind: _Why wasn't Jack answering_. He had been so insistent on keeping in touch, sticking together, anything they could possibly do to prevent something _that_ bad happening again. It didn't make sense for him to just up and leave. Images of a destroyed Hub danced through her head. Glass broken, computer wires sprawled everywhere, spaghetti entrails. Lights smashed or barely on; the red glow of lockdown throwing bloody images along the debris.

But the Hub was not so. It was as they had left it. Lights on, everything where it should be. Considering none of them had been doing any paper work recently, the stacks of paper were untouched since Jack had moved them some point during his clean up.

The only thing missing was Jack.

Gwen glanced up at the computers. Evidently, Jack had hooked up the rest of them; they were all running the typical blue-amorphous-shape default screen. On the side of the computers that would have been Tosh's station were what looked like Post-it notes. Gwen went over to them.

"Well, at least he left us a note."

"What's it say?"

Gwen grabbed the first one. It was addressed to Owen.

" 'Owen. Please go and have a little chat with David down at the hospital. Bring someone with you.' "

Owen rolled his eyes. Gwen silence him with a glare.

" 'Gwen. Make sure the kid doesn't go running off again. Ianto, coffee? And rest!' "

Owen sighed. "Anything in there say where he was going?"

Gwen shook her head. "No. And he's requested we look at the file marked 'Jigsaw'."

"Well, I'd love to, except that I have a hot date with a catatonic junkie." Owen turned to leave. Gwen set the kid down on the computer chair and put a hand on Owen's shoulder to stop him. Ianto walked past her into Jack's office.

"Owen, just wait a second. You don't have to go. Jack said take someone with you, but he's _insisting _we stick together. He's supposed to be here."

"But he isn't. So I'll just go on my own, and see you in a couple of hours."

Something didn't seem right to Gwen. Then she spotted it, sprawled across Owen's not-in-use desk. "His coat's still here! Why would he leave without it?"

"He wouldn't," Ianto said from Jack's office. "Something . . . something's not right."

Owen sat at his desk, shoving the pile of paper to the floor. Miraculously, it didn't scatter white everywhere. He ignored the look Gwen shot in his direction and started tapping away at the keyboard. After a few moments, he huffed in frustration. "What bloody file is he talking about? There aren't any new files in here. History doesn't say any were created, either. Hm," Owen shrugged, "must have been tired. Forgot to make the file."

"Jack wouldn't just tell us to read a file that doesn't exist," Ianto said as he came out of Jack's office. He was holding something. "And I found his mobile."

Owen sighed again. "Well, then why would he tell us to read a file that doesn't exist?"

Ianto shrugged. "Maybe someone deleted it."

Gwen shook her head. "Can't have. Only Torchwood members—" a look of understanding passed over Gwen's face, "oh my god! Tosh! She's the only other person who would have come in here!"

"Great! Just one problem with that one, Gwen. Tosh is missing!" Sarcasm lined Owen's voice.

"But this means she's alive! Maybe Jack took her out—"

"Without his mobile."

"Or his coat," Ianto added.

"He could have just forgot. If Tosh came back, we can't blame him for being a bit hasty."

"Another problem. Why wouldn't he call us? Gwen, come _on_. Tosh did not come back. And if she did, why would she delete a file Jack had just created?"

"Still . . ."

Ianto took the opportunity to avert dangerous argument between the two. "Something is definitely wrong. Jack wouldn't just leave. We have to . . . we have to consider the possibility that whoever got us before came back."

Gwen looked down, defeated. She scratched her head and then busied herself setting up something for the kid to entertain himself with. He seemed happy with one activity that was simply colouring; click the colour he wants and then drag it across the picture. The image was that of a smiling, cartoon butterfly.

"Is there any way to track him?"

"Not without his mobile, no," Ianto said as he gracelessly plopped onto the couch. He looked tired, despite the fact that he hadn't taken any shifts. Again, as per Jack's insistence.

"Lovely." Gwen came and sat beside him. "Any suggestions on what to do?"

"We could check the search archives," Ianto offered.

"Already done it," Owen said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "that's been wiped too."

"So someone didn't want us to know what Jack found . . . he must have found out who's been doing this. Which would make sense if they came and got him. . . ," Gwen concluded.

Ianto nodded. A dejected nod; an I-agree-but-don't-like-it nod. "Makes sense."

Gwen sighed. "Yeah. I just wish it hadn't happened."

"Don't we all."

* * *

A lack of air has a rather disagreeable way of making itself known. A painful tightness spanning his entire chest, which, again, was bare. At least this time he was still clothed below the waist; his shoes had been removed, but his trousers remained. Shackles had been put around both ankles, the chain attached leading to three _incredibly_ heavy cinder blocks. He had no idea how long he had been hanging there. However, from the fiery pain in his shoulders, no longer than a few hours. Still, he doubted even that much time had passed. Being strung up like that, arms behind him, forced the entire support of his body onto his wrists and shoulder joints. His heart could have pounded out as little as twenty minutes for all he knew.

The bleak setting, though, offset any comfort that small fact could have offered. The windowless room reminded Jack far too much of a room he had found himself in two months ago. It hadn't been good then; it most certainly would not be good now.

This particular room of four walls, floor, and ceiling was a public toilet. Or what had once been a public toilet. Three urinals lined the far wall; two stalls, their sides dented and even missing, stood opposite; a row of sinks a little above waist height bulged out closer to the door. Only half of the long horizontal mirror remained. The rest had cracked, broken, and fallen out ages ago. The place looked to be abandoned for some time. From the stench, it had clearly been used at some point by the wandering vagabond. Thick, musky, palpable smell-taste of month-old faeces sitting in a pool of stagnant water. It made Jack gag; he would have tossed his dinner, had he eaten.

And, rather unfortunately, there looked to be someone else in the room with him. A tape player, perversely clean in such a disgusting environment, hung about the person's neck.

* * *

Side note: I'm working off their series 1 personalities.


	8. 8

Check out the poll on my profile. It may be the next story I write. ;D

_Let the game begin._

* * *

"So what are we supposed to do?"

"Well, for one, avoid this person. I think that's the most obvious choice at this point."

"Sarcasm unnecessary."

"Stuff it."

Gwen sighed. The kid hopped off the chair and came over to her, crawling into her lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his head on her chest. Gwen put a hand on his head and smiled. "And we have this little guy to think about. We don't even know where he came from . . . but I'm sure his parents will want him back."

Owen snorted. "Because of _course_ they'll be happy to find him _here_," he mumbled to himself. Gwen and Ianto were too far away to hear it.

After a long moment of silence, Ianto spoke. "We could do what Jack asked. Go talk to David, see if he knows anything."

Gwen nodded absently, sucked the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth. She chewed it contemplatively. How much good would talking to David do them? Assuming, of course, he would talk to them at all. The possibility remained that he wasn't even conscious yet. What then? Sit around and wait? They would have to leave someone there, and it would most likely be Owen. And, of course, he would be the least willing to stay. But Gwen couldn't, because that would mean taking the kid with her. Ianto certainly couldn't, either. _She_ wouldn't allow him to spend the night in a hospital. Sleeping in chairs was uncomfortable enough without have a dodgy leg. The only thing left to them was travelling as a group. It was doable, just not super convenient. Or enjoyable. Especially not with the way Owen was acting.

She sighed. "We'll all just have to go to the hospital. It might give us an idea where to start looking."

The kid climbed off her lap, allowing her to stand. Once she was off the couch, he reached his arms towards her. A sad look covered his face. Gwen bent down and picked him up, settling him on her hip.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and dropped his face into her shoulder. Gwen rubbed his back and he sniffled. "It's all right, love. It's all right."

From his work station, Owen yelped and jumped off the chair. He dug frantically in the back pocket of his jeans, muttering obscenities. His phone, evidently, had been in that pocket. On vibrate.

"Hello? Yes, this is Owen Harper from Torchwood. He — he _what_? Are you _absolutely_ sure? Because if he _does_ come out of it — no, I know," he scoffed good-naturedly, "yes, I'm a doctor. And you're sure he has no next-of-kin?" — a pause — "then if the poor sod isn't going to make it, don't waste the bed. I — I know it's harsh, but at this point he's better to us dead." He stopped talking to allow the person on the other end to say what they would. After a minute, he nodded, confirming something with a "yeah, we can do that."

"We can get him here ourselves. I — no! I'd like to see you _try_. Please, Ms West, you wouldn't want to do that. Why? Because it's more trouble than it's worth. Expect to see us soon." He ended the call with a sigh.

"Who was that?" Gwen had a suspicion it had been the hospital.

"Hospital. David's gone into a coma. No next of kin to protest unorthodox means of interrogation."

"What did you say we would do?" Dark, accusing tone. Gwen wasn't exactly happy with the way Owen just threw this man's life around.

"Look, Gwen. Either they keep him on life support and he stays in a vegetative state for the next ten years, or they take him off it and I get to cut 'im up and find out what went wrong."

"He was shot!"

"He could have something else in his system. Ianto, is the SUV still here?"

"Yes."

"Wait, _what_?" Gwen said, turning on Ianto.

"The SUV is still here," he repeated, slower. Gwen gave him a frustrated look.

"Then he definitely didn't leave."

"Okay, we confirmed he's been grabbed," Owen said with a casual tone one most often uses to confirm a first date.

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?!"

Owen shrugged. "Nothing I can do about it from here."

"All right then, why don't you go somewhere you _can_ do something?"

"Good. I'll be off then."

Gwen's mouth flapped a few times, a splendidly convincing imitation of a fish out of water. "Oh no you won't, Owen Harper."

Owen headed for the cog-hatch. "Watch me."

* * *

Jack did not particularly like where the situation was headed. Under normal circumstances, waking up in a strange place, with a strang_er_ person, tied up by means of elaborate bondage, Jack wouldn't have given much complaint. But considering the similar markings of his last encounter, this would most certainly _not_ be a night of rough fun. If it was anything like last time, it would be a game; if he lost, it was very likely the as-of-yet unnamed civilian would die. Hell, they would probably _both_ die. Jack just wouldn't stay that way.

"Death is a permanent condition, you know. Thantophobia. Fear of death or dying. Most view it as a completely irrational fear because death is just the natural end to things. But it's irreversible, it's filthy, and so undignified! I can't die now!" He had a Scottish accent that thickened the more his voice trembled.

This young man was very twitchy. And very nervous. Jack hoped he wouldn't have to rely on him too heavily for freedom.

"Hey, it's fine. You're going to be fine."

"No I'm not! Chained to a wall in a dirty loo! And _you_ just _hanging_ there. Oh God, this is just like the things that happened in America. You're from there, aren't you? You heard of those?"

Jack only nodded, sensing that the man needed to explain this: it was a way to distract him from the setting at hand.

"There was this serial killer in America. Well, _still_ in America. They haven't caught him yet. He would set up these . . . these things for his victims to do. If they finished in a certain amount of time, they got to go free. If they didn't, they died. And . . . and . . . a-aaaa-aand—" his breath started coming in short gasps.

Jack's shoulders hurt so much it brought moisture to his eyes. All he needed was a few moments' relief. This man's stuttering wasn't helping Jack's patience.

"London! Supposedly there was something like it in London. Found four people on the street looked like they'd been through hell and back. Found a few bodies in an abandoned building nearby. Of course, a connection has only been speculation by a few journalists such as myself—"

"Whoa, wait a second. Just calm down and breathe."

"I can taste shit!"

"Breathe through your nose. Lot better to smell than taste it, believe me. What's your name?"

"Malcolm Haston. I shouldn't even be in Cardiff. Hell, not even _Wales_. I work in Manchester! I was only here for a bit a time away from me parents."

"You'll see them again. I promise."

"How _can_ you?!"

Jack smiled, exposing as many perfect teeth as possible. "Captain Jack Harkness, at your service. I'd offer you a hand, but . . . a little tied up at the moment."

Malcolm scoffed at the poor humour. "Lot of good that'll do in here."

"I suppose you're right. Could you do me one really small favour?"

"What?"

"Play the tape around your neck."

"What for!"

"Please. It might explain things."

Still not looking convinced, Malcolm — using two fingers and with an expression of total disgust on his face — lifted the string off his neck. He fumbled with the play button, then flicked the volume higher.

"Hello Malcolm. Every morning you wake up, look out your picture window, and think how dirty the world outside is. You live your life hating yourself, your inner dirt. Daddy can't save you here."

"Your job is to report the obscene and the violent, the dirt of the human race. It is no wonder someone as filthy as you is so good at capturing the aspects of reality that people want to forget."

"With you in this room is Captain Jack Harkness. He can not die, but you can."

"_What_?!"

"Shh! Listen!"

"It seems impossible, but you will witness with your own eyes his death. It will be painful, he will scream, and there will be blood. Oh yes. There will be blood. Do not doubt that."

"But that is not the only thing you will see. Once Mr Harkness has freed himself, he must free you. Four walls make a home; take away one of those walls and evil pours in."

"I have put a clock on the wall for your convenience. If you have failed to free Malcolm by noon, Jack, then he will not be leaving this room for a very long time." The rasping voice chuckled at the last bit.

When the tape ran out, Malcolm wound up his arm to throw it across the room.

"No!"

"Why not!"

"We may need that again. Just . . . give me a second to get down. . . ."

Suspended the way he was, with his arms behind his head, he could not see where the chain connected with the ceiling. Or what had been used to put it there. He only hoped he didn't dislocate both shoulders.

Slowly, applying more weight gradually, he began to pull at the chain holding him to the ceiling. The strain on his shoulders was immense; too much too soon would certainly pop both joints out of place. Although it _might_ have made it easier, he would have to run at the wall afterwards to get them back into place. Malcolm certainly wouldn't be able to help him.

Something popped. Jack canted to the left; it took him a few seconds to realise his shoulder had just dislocated. Then, delayed, the pain came. Like being hit by an out-of-control freight train. Which, simultaneously, happened to be on fire. He tried not to cry out and ended up biting his lip. If it weren't for the pain, breathing may have been a bit easier. He no longer had the same pressure constricting his chest.

Although _he_ hadn't made any noise, Malcolm gasped when the joint dislocated. Jack cringed and continued to pull on his restraints.

"Doesn't that _hurt_?"

"Of course," he answered through gritted teeth. The chain holding him to the ceiling still had no give whatsoever. Jack paused for a moment, panting. He wouldn't be able to continue on like this; his _other_ shoulder would pop out and he would be completely useless.

Jack blinked and suddenly the floor was rushing up to meet him. Somehow — miraculously, otherwise he would have likely smashed his face open in numerous places — he managed to twist so that he fell on his still undamaged right shoulder. The cinderblock weights landed under his legs; he felt his trousers tear near the ankles.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just fine." It came out much more a cough than words. "How far can you get from that wall?"

"What do you mean?"

Jack would have sighed had he breath to spare. "The chain around your ankle. How far from the wall can you move?"

"I don't know!"

"Then try!"

Malcolm nodded, more to himself than to Jack. He stood slowly, then walked towards Jack at just as slow a pace. The chain jerked his ankle not even a metre away from were Jack had fallen. He looked to Jack for direction.

"Do you think you could untie me?"

"If you can get a wee bit closer, yes."

Jack looked up, withholding a glare. This phobia-riddled Scot was starting to annoy him.

"Or I can pull you closer."

"That might be a bit helpful."

Malcolm got to his knees and leaned forward. His elbows touched the ground; he cringed in disgust. If he had had a free hand, Jack may have reached up and slapped him across the head to try and make him be less of an idiot.

Malcolm managed to pull Jack close enough to work at the leather shackles on his wrists. But he wasn't doing anything.

"Malcolm?"

The Scot shook himself. "Sorry. It's just . . . your shoulder is a tad conspicuous . . . with the odd angle and whatnot . . ."

"Don't worry about it and just untie me."

Jack could feel Malcolm's hands trembling as he fumbled with the clasp. Apparently, the psycho responsible hadn't wanted getting out of the hanging restraints to be difficult. Merely painful.

"Is . . . will your shoulder be okay?"

Jack chuckled, trying his best to keep a light mood. Hopefully it would prevent Malcolm from panicking. "Yeah."

Suddenly Jack's hands were free and Malcolm let out a little startled squeak. Jack wondered what kind of childhood the Scot had had that made him so jumpy.

Gingerly, he brought his right hand under his chest. Still being cautious, he pushed himself up so that he was now on his knees. His left shoulder stuck out at a sickening angle. Jack would have to somehow slam into the wall — backwards — with enough force to pop the joint back. He didn't have time to wait for his body to do it for him.

Jack slowly flipped onto his back. The cinderblocks much impeded the movement; his feet barely moved with him, and a new tug started at his ankles. Ignoring his shoulder as best he could, he bent forward and began to work with a single hand at the chain holding the grey blocks to his ankles. Fortunately enough, there was no padlock and he soon had his feet freed. Only when he was completely unfettered did he turn his attention back to Malcolm. Apparently the man had been speaking to him.

"Pardon?"

"I said what about me? You got out fine and dandy, but I'm still locked to the bloody wall!"

"Give me a second, 'kay?" Twitchy _and_ impatient. Staying around this man for too long would get annoying. Jack stood slowly, flexing his toes as he went. After a moment he shook himself.

They needed to find a way out. There was a door; Jack went over to it. The knob didn't turn and there wasn't a place for a key. This would not lead them from the room. Jack crouched in front of the door and began tapping along the wall with his knuckles, looking for hollow places. Perhaps he could kick a hole large enough to crawl through.

"What the hell are you doing that for?"

"Trying to find a way out."

"What do the bloody walls have to do with that?"

"This guy doesn't want this to be easy. You can try the door, if you like."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Easy for you."

Jack worked his way towards the toilets. No parts of the wall had any give whatsoever. Jack withheld the urge to kick a hole simply out of frustration. Instead, he continued the systematic tapping. If he could keep his focus on something important, it would be enough to distract his thoughts from straying to less favourable areas. Such as what the hell he was doing here, how he had wound up in this place, and, the worst, _why_. Their being targeted had seemed random. Almost. Here was this psychopath, able to drug and drag them into almost inescapable situations. Dangerous, life-threatening, challenging beyond belief tasks designed to test their will to live.

Was it testing their will to live, or was it simply sadistic pleasures of an alien?

Jack really did not like that second option.

He found himself standing in front of the broken door of one stall. Above the filthy toilet was a heart painted in something that could have been blood or faeces. Whatever was used, gravity had pulled thing strands of the liquid into gruesome lines ending in fat droplets. It looked fairly recent.

Jack looked at the brown, stagnant goop in the toilet. He didn't have any means of shifting the almost-liquid pile, and he didn't think it would be worth smelling of the mephitic filth the whole rest of this ordeal if nothing was in there.

"Captain?"

Jack stuck his head around the wall. "Call me Jack, please."

"Jack. Have you found anything?"

Jack held up a finger. "Just give me a few more minutes. You'll be fine."

"Swear it?"

"You have my word."

Malcolm scoffed. "And that is the point in every horror movie where the audience goes 'that man is going to die.'"

Jack came fully out of the stall to stand in front of the Scot. "Hey. This isn't a horror movie. This—"

"Is a lot worse." Malcolm sighed. "Just see if you can find a key while I mentally prepare myself for a long, painful death."

Fine. If he wanted to be a cynic, so be it. Jack wasn't going to do anything more to keep him cheery. It took too much effort to act chipper in such a dire situation.

Jack abandoned the first stall and went on to the next. The toilet in this one was broken in half, with a large chunk huddled in the corner. Where water should have been, there was a mess of ashes from he didn't know what. And nestled in the centre of those ashes, a pristine coffee-stained-napkin coloured envelope. Jack carefully lifted it off the pile of grey. _Follow you heart_ was printed in small, typed letters. Jack flipped it over and slit it open with a finger.

Inside, a single bullet. It looked suspiciously like the kind he used in his Webly.

"Jack? What'd you find?"

"Nothing." He shook out the bullet and deposited it in his pocket, dropping the envelope back into the toilet. When it fell, the ashes collapsed inwards. Some silver toothed object poked out from the wisps of grey that shot up when the ashes shifted; a key. Jack plucked it up with two fingers and examined it for a moment before returning to Malcolm.

"Actually," he showed the key, "I found this."

"Goody! Now I can go die somewhere else."

"Hey," Jack said sternly, "you are not going to die."

"Says you."

"Yes, says me. I got my three people out of something like this last time, I can manage just you."

Malcolm barked a not-humorous laugh. "What happened to Tosh then?"

A few shocked seconds of silence from the captain. "Excuse me?"

Malcolm's eyes widened and he clamped both hands over his mouth. Jack repeated the question and Malcolm began shaking his head rapidly.

"How do you know about that?"

Malcolm shook his head once more, refusing to lift his hands. So Jack forcefully removed them for him, pinned them to the ground.

"Now, tell me, _how_ do you know about that?"

"I won't tell you."

"Fine. I won't unlock you."

Malcolm's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare!"

Jack grinned. "Any why not?"

"Because you're Captain Jack Harkness, you don't leave people to d — oh bugger it, I've said too much now," Malcolm rushed, ending with a frustrated sigh. "All right! UNIT's been keeping an eye on you since you disappeared for two days a few months back."

"Why would UNIT care? They didn't care that _other_ time we were gone for two days." Jack almost wished they had noticed the countryside incident. Then, perhaps, _someone _would be worried when Torchwood stopped catching rogue weevils and investigating mysterious lights over the Bay.

Malcolm nodded. "Normally, they don't. But when you were gone, _we_ had to deal with some alerts in Cardiff, because you lot weren't."

Jack held the key out of reach of Malcolm's hand. "Ahah-ah. What alerts?"

"Weevils," Malcolm snapped too quickly.

"Uh-huh."

"Swear it. Look, can you put professional differences aside, please?"

Jack conceded and unlocked the shackle. As he helped Malcolm to his feet, he said, "I'll be calling your boss when we get out of here."

"_If_ we get out of here."

* * *

Owen grumbled to himself as he cut the engine of his car. It had been difficult to persuade Gwen to drive him back to his flat so that he could get the bloody thing; Gwen kept berating him for not thinking of it earlier. The kid was trying to sleep, after all, and she couldn't just go and wake him up to cover Owen's mistake. Owen, in defending himself, had said he could just take the SUV. Gwen retorted that she didn't want to be stranded at the Hub, especially since making a fast getaway wouldn't at all be easy for Ianto.

Hence, he, Gwen, and the kid had wasted the better part of half an hour battling rush-hour traffic to his flat. From there, Gwen dropped him off with a simple "go to the hospital" before driving back to the Hub. To Owen, it was obvious she felt uncomfortable leaving Ianto at the Hub, but _someone _had to stay there in case Jack contacted them, and she wasn't about the let Ianto drive. So, the teaboy stayed after he assured Gwen that he had a firearm within easy reach.

Owen sat for a moment in the car. He didn't think David would be talking, let alone conscious. The poor bloke was a few steps shy of coherent when they had first found him, he wouldn't have improved. It mildly surprised Owen shock hadn't killed the junkie. The only real way Owen expected help from David was as a corpse.

Certain this would be one of his more unproductive days at work, Owen swung out of his car.

-

A nurse trotted after him as he strode towards David Afghan's room. He knew where it was from his stay here not even twenty-four hours ago. Apparently, David's attending doctor remembered Owen, too. Owen suspected a notice had been sent out to the nurses warning them not to let a man spouting "Owen Harper, Torchwood" anywhere near David.

Owen, however, kept walking and ignoring the insistent nurse.

"You can't go in there! He's in a critical condition!"

"All the more reason for me to be there." Owen halted abruptly and turned to face the stout woman. She had a rather impressive bosom and wide, flabby arms. She had the look of a forty-something, haven't-been-shagged-in-ages-and-won't-be-getting-any-soon woman who spent her evenings wishing her life was more like _Coupling_.

She crossed her arms, a stern frown pulling down her saggy cheeks. The two of them were engaged in a staring war for not fifteen seconds when she scowled and harrumphed. "I'll be getting Dr Fischer."

"You do that." Owen turned on his heels and pushed open the door to David's room.

As expected, David still had not come around. In Owen's professional, medical opinion, he never would. And then he'd be the human equivalent of an eggplant no one wants anymore. David could be in a hospital bed for the next three years and not so much as shift a limb. Owen would never have the opportunity to question him, and that consequently made finding Jack all the harder.

Owen's hand was reaching for David's medical chart when a much older hand grabbed his wrist. Owen looked behind him and was met by a thin, fragile-looking man in his early fifties. He was at least an inch shorter than Owen.

"That information is not for you, Mr Harper."

"Doctor Harper. And yes it is. Torchwood has authority here . . . Dr Fischer, I presume?"

Dr Fischer nodded. "Yes. And no, you don't. This man has been shot—"

"And most likely will never wake up. Have you contacted the family?"

"Of course."

"And what have they said?"

Dr Fischer sighed. "They me a rather stern yelling. Basically said they didn't want their no-good son alive and refused to consent to anything. It's the least we can do to just keep him alive right now."

"Well don't. You're wasting the room. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to kill him."

"You _what_?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No."

"Then there's no need for you to be here. Would you mind fetching me a body bag? Can't just stroll through the lobby with a dead body, now can I?"

Owen started over to the bed, counting the seconds until one of the two behind stopped him. He actually wanted them to stop him; it worked out better if he could convince them to give David enough amphetamines to wake him. That way, he would be conscious and functional for at least a day. It gave him plenty of time to ask him questions. Much longer than if they tried to bring him back with a resurrection gauntlet of some sort. Much less risky, also.

As he hoped, Dr Fischer stopped him by grabbing his arm once more. "Don't do that."

"Then give him an amphetamine / epinephrine cocktail."

"He'll only be awake for a few hours! A day at most!"

Owen shrugged. "I only need twenty minutes, tops."

Dr Fischer straightened and released Owen's hand. "That is out of the question."

Owen reached into his wallet, retrieving the card that identified him as a member of Torchwood. "Sorry, mate, but it isn't. Torchwood has jurisdiction over this case, and if I say wake him up, you _will_ wake him up. Unless you want my captain coming in?"

Dr Fischer sighed. All hospital staff knew vague enough rumours about Torchwood; he certainly wasn't about to step on the not-so-secret organisation's toes. A few tales of drugging and memory loss had been circulating since the late 90s.

"All right," he conceded, "just keep in mind, Dr Harper, that you'll be putting a perfectly innocent man in pain."

Owen scoffed. "A junkie who murdered a man with a family? He's no innocent, Dr Fischer. Now," Owen turned to the nurse, "be a dear and fetch the meds."

She breathed in an affronted manner, but stalked out of the room nonetheless. The instant she was out the door, Dr Fischer rounded on Owen.

"This is completely unethical."

"Torchwood." Owen said it as if it were a fix-all answer.

"I'm still going to report you."

"You go ahead and do that, Dr Fischer." We'll see if you still remember this in the morning.

The nurse shuffled back in, handing a syringe to Dr Fischer. She glowered at Owen. Owen held out his hand for the amalgamate that would, hopefully, wake David up long enough for questioning.

"This is ludicrous. You're completely mad!"

"So sue me," Owen said as he stuck the needle into David's IV. He unceremoniously jammed the liquid from its tube.

Owen tapped his foot impatiently. Barely a minute shaved itself from the wall clock when David's eyes flickered open.

"And who the fuck might you be?" he rasped.

"Tetchy are we?"

"Where am I?"

"David," Dr Fischer said in a calm voice, stepping up to the bed, "you're in St Helen's hospital. You're perfectly safe."

David looked at the IV in his arm and reached for it. Owen immediately stopped him. "No you don't. I need to ask you a few questions."

"Like hell you do! Why don't you go bugger off somewhere—"

"Oi! Shut your mouth and listen," Owen said while beginning to turn David's wrist in an uncomfortable direction.

"You let go of me! Can't you make him stop?" David pleaded with Dr Fischer.

"I wish I could."

"Why _can't_ you, for fuck's sake!"

"I'm from Torchwood," Owen interrupted, "and you are going to answer my questions," a little more pressure on the wrist; David's mouth fell open and his eyes scrunched closer together, "or you'll spend the next six weeks putting heroine in the other arm."

"Oh piss off!"

Owen grinned humourlessly. "How about not? Now, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Why should I tell you!"

"Because," Owen turned the wrist even further. David cried out and Owen allowed him to jerk his hand back. "More people will die if you don't. You've already killed one man, David, so don't think I'm going to be the only one asking questions."

"Questions! More like a bloody interrogation is what this is!"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Owen repeated, louder this time.

"That . . . that _place_ wherever it was! There was another man there. Jimmy or Jonathan or Jones. Something. And a man on a tape, saying something about shooting. I remember being shot. . . ."

Owen had to remind himself to breathe; frustration and a sense of urgency had constricted his chest. "All right. On the tape, what did the man say?"

"I don't remember exactly."

"Positive?"

"Of course I am, you twat."

"Any other information you have would be just peachy."

"That's all I remember."

"Right."

"Swear it."

"And I really trust the word of a chronic drug user."

"Oi! I—"

Owen quickly waved his hands in the air. "I don't care." He passed a taunting smile to David; I'm-going-to-break-your-heart smile.

"Well, since I _am_ a doctor, I might as well inform you on your condition."

"Dr Harper, don't you _dare_—" Dr Fischer attempted to intervene, but Owen cut him off.

"David Afghan, you have been shot. You survived, unfortunately, and are in a critical condition. This means that you are — were — borderline comatose. Now, what I did was pump your system with enough adrenaline and amphetamines to wake a sedated horse. You might be awake for a day or two, but as soon as the drugs wear off, you'll go right back to being unconscious. Once _that_ happens, you most likely won't wake up and will spend the next ten years in a room with four other patients in similar conditions. But since your family wants absolutely _nothing_ to do with you, this hospital is not obligated to keep you alive. So, you're looking forward to a few months of pissing in a bag and feeding through a tube before the head of the hospital decides you're a waste of space."

"You are going to die soon, and you have nothing to show for your life. No one cares, no one will remember you."

David's face fell as quickly as water over a sheer cliff. Owen smiled triumphantly and casually strode out of the room. Dr Fischer followed at his heels. Once in the hall, the older man roughly jerked Owen by the arm to face him.

"How the bloody _hell_ can you just do that to someone you don't even know?!"

"Simple. You don't give a shit."

And he left.

* * *

"Owen, you have got to be the biggest git in the history of gits."

Owen rolled his eyes. "Tell me something I don't already know."

"We still haven't heard from Jack."

Owen poked his head around the corner. "Something I _don't _know."

"You're an idiot."

"Still not news to me, love."

Gwen sighed. "What did David tell you?"

Owen let his feet kick forward so that he fell back onto the couch. Ianto shifted further to the right.

"Nothing a bit of investigating couldn't tell us. Wasted trip in my opinion."

"Thanks for the morale boost."

"Pleasure."

Gwen sighed again, dejected this time. "What, then? How can we find Jack?"

"We can't," Ianto said hopelessly.

"You all right, Ianto?" Gwen looked over at him with concern.

"Yeah. Fine. Coffee?"

"I'd love some," Owen grumbled. Ianto started to stand.

"Oh no you don't. Ianto, sit down. I'll get the sodding coffee," Gwen said, a bit irritated. She gestured for the kid to follow her. He bounced behind, beaming.

Long, stringy silence trailed behind her. Owen stretched his legs and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of the sofa. One of the computers chirped, signalling the end of a scan. Jack's mobile hadn't been located, and with its absence, any hope of easily finding him curdled.

Abruptly, Owen clapped his hands together. "I've got it! Check missing persons within the last seventy-two hours! Look in and see if any could be targets for this nutter."

Gwen came back with two cups of coffee precariously balanced in one hand. The kid hung from her back, arms around her neck and legs locked at her waist. She placed them on the low table in front of the couch; Owen immediately reached for his.

"Wonderful idea, except that we have _no idea_ what kind of people fit the 'criteria' for being nabbed by a sadistic murderer!"

"We don't even know if he's human," Ianto added, rather unhelpfully. Gwen shot him black look. He shrugged. "Just saying."

"Just saying isn't helping."

Owen sighed. "Any brilliant ideas, Gwen?"

"No. None at all." She breathed, dispirited, defeated. "We're just going to have to find a place to start looking."

* * *

"No. No, no, no, no, no, _no_! Absolutely not!"

"It's the only way—"

"That _you_'ve found."

Jack repressed a frustrated sigh. "Well, unless you can find something better."

"Can't you just . . . break through the bloody wall or something?!"

Jack grinned with a scoff-chuckle. "Captain, not Superman."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "That's what she said," he grumbled.

Jack gave him a sideways glance. "Would you like me to go first?" he asked with a near-mock, I-really-want-to-punch-you-right-now tone.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"Scared, UNIT Boy?"

"Oh so I'm 'UNIT Boy' now? What does that make you? Underground Base Man?"

"Funny."

"Thanks. No would you get in there?"

"Eager are we?"

"I wouldn't mind getting out of here, yeah."

Jack sighed. He wasn't exactly looking forward to crawling into the dark space in the wall. There was a flap that opened in, revealing what appeared to be a tunnel. Jack could only assume it led out of the room. But to exactly where or how, he was unsure. His main concern was entrapment; not only would he be stuck, but Malcolm would certainly never leave the room.

Jack pulled a deep breath inwards. He winked at Malcolm before saying, "See you soon," and crawled into complete dark.

The air here — thick, cold — pressed around his exposed torso and bare feet. Jack shivered and put a hand above him to test how low the ceiling hung. Quite low: he couldn't even fully extend his arm. He put a foot behind him to test the flap he had crawled through. It didn't move. And a wall stood directly behind his feet, so the only way was forward. How far forward . . . he just hoped it led to a way out, and didn't just stop abruptly, trapping him.

So he started forward to unknown ends.

-

The cold at least helped the throb in his shoulder. It had subsided to more a dull ache than the hot pain from earlier.

He had no way to tell how long or far he had gone, but it felt at least five minutes had passed. The air, closer, the ceiling a bit lower. A claustrophobic feeling started between his shoulders, inched slowly along his spine as the walls drew nearer, more oppressive.

But the space _couldn't _be getting smaller. The game couldn't be over that quickly.

Jack's face bumped painfully into the wall, scraping his nose. "Damn it!"

And out of simple, automatic reaction, jerked his head up in an attempt to sit. He completely forgot about the ceiling.

When his head crashed against the solid wall . . . well, it didn't; it kept going. His head _did_ hit something, but that something moved.

"_What_?"

A hatch? A bloody _hatch_? No, no, more within the family of overly large cat doors.

Jack brought his hands up to push tentatively at this new way out. The space above was a fair few degrees lighter than the near-coffin he currently lay awkwardly in.

Jack heaved himself through the hole. And was mildly pleased to see he was in a large room where he could now stand, comfortably. Fluorescent beams hung from the high ceiling, lighted tentacles.

The only problem was what snoozed in the corner.

Jack only just recalled the creature's name. Cosarr. Very dangerous, very fast animal that was a hybrid of some sort. The species' planet of origin was uncertain, but their breeding had been outlawed just about everywhere.

Except, obviously — of _course _— here, mainly because the world had no idea. Obliviousness worked in the favour of many aliens.

Regardless of that, Jack was surprised a full-grown one could even live here without being noticed. The things had a vicious bloodlust, the need for live, warm flesh ingrained. Cosarrs weren't known for being lovely pets.

But it also gave Jack hope. If this guy had one, he couldn't be from this planet. No one native to Earth would be able to properly handle one.

An average Cosarr stood two metres at the shoulder, and three metres from the tip of the barbed, hound-like face to the end of the whip-tail. Spikes followed the contours of the spine and leg bones; claws much like the lethal toe on a _Velociraptor _ended the thin feet. Three toes at the front, four at the back. Cosarrs were most popularly used in illegal fighting rings, known for malevolent natures, impossible stamina and ridiculously high pain tolerance.

Just what he needed right now. Of all things, a _Cosarr_! The only good thing about his current position was that Malcolm wasn't there.

Jack scanned the room. A door, solid, mean, sneering, stood along the same wall where the Cosarr slept. If he could just sneak over . . .

He stepped forward. The flapdoor slammed into the ground with a hollow bang. The Cosarr's ugly, red, gunmetal-studded head jerked towards him. It snorted once, clawed along the ground, the contact producing a horrible screeching. Jack winced.

It stood. It wasn't a small one, either. Quiet large, actually; probably one of the older ones. Scars crisscrossed in splotches, stretched between ten centimetre spikes, spiralled around the legs. This one had seen many fights. And it was big. Very, very _big_. Jack couldn't think of a better way to describe it. The thing's shoulders were at least half a metre taller than he.

It opened its mouth and bellowed. The stench of a rotted something — that, most likely, hadn't smelled pleasant when it was alive — roiled towards him with a menace of its own. Jack covered his mouth with his arm and darted to the left. The Cosarr loped at him.

Jack flung himself at the ground, rolling. The Cosarr leapt over him, dripping acidic saliva onto Jack's bare back. It sizzled a spatter of burns between his shoulders. Jack somersaulted forwards. Got his feet beneath him and launched into running. Somehow, in the rolling, the door had wound up at his back. The Cosarr, with its massive weight, had not been able to stop at the wall and instead ran along it. When it reached the corner, it bent its legs and sprang at Jack.

He dived forward. One of the Cosarr's feet lazily raked along his back. Blood immediately sprung up where skin had once been. Jack cringed and stumbled to his feet, at the same time trying to go forward. He ended up falling again.

He could hear the Cosarr trotting back. It enjoyed this, playing with such an easy meal. It didn't want Jack dead yet. If it had wanted him dead, it could have done so with the first jump. Apparently it had the same mind for games as its master.

Jack fell against the door. The blood from his back had stained his pants half way to the back of the knees.

The knob turned. Jack almost didn't believe it.

The door opened inwards. He quickly yanked it, two-stepped through and slammed it behind him. A few seconds later, the Cosarr slammed into the thick metal. It howled balefully. Jack resisted the urge to punch the door and instead growled at it.

He closed his eyes, leaned against the wall.

The burns caused by the saliva wouldn't heal quickly, he knew that much. On a regular human, the marks would still be inflamed and painful after three weeks. For him — if he was lucky, which he was certain he wouldn't be, because the universe seemed to have a personal vendetta with him — half that time before they started to heal. The slashes from the claws would be slow going, too. A mild poison prevented cellular repair. It had been designed to keep the opponent Cosarr injured during a fight. But beyond being painful, it was completely harmless.

A tad on the side of light-headed, Jack slowly opened his eyes. A door stood directly opposite him.

"_Jack? Is that you?" _came, muffled, from behind the door.

"_If it _is_ you, open the bloody door!_"

"So demanding," Jack said as he turned the knob. It was instantly yanked from his hand as Malcolm pulled the door back. When he finally saw Jack, he went slack-jawed.

"What. The _fuck._ Happened?"

Jack shook his head, placing one hand against the doorframe to steady himself. "Whatever you do, don't open that door."

* * *

_To be continued_


	9. 9

Ok! Slap me please! This is ridiculous (how many times have I used that word when apologising to you guys?) with the not updating for weeks at a time. School was just . . . hell, basically. Roasting hell on the second floor where our English teacher used to be.

**Look at this at least -- **But school's out now, and so I have LOADS more time to finish. I'm debating whether or not to post all four of the last chapters at once, or do them a week apart. Any feedback on that?

Anyways, only four chapters after this, so it's going to start winding down . . . or winding up . . . _something_. More will be happening, more will be explained . . . updates will probably be further apart, but the chapters will be longer.

Sorry this chapter is so damn short. It ends where it ends. (Which usually means the next one will be monstrous)

I'd like to refer you all to **butterfly.cell**'s story "Which artery do you normally sever?" which, apparently, was inspired by my stuff :D

_Let the game begin._

* * *

Gwen surreptitiously glanced at the couch. Without removing his eyes from the computer screen, Owen said, "He's not moving, Gwen. Hasn't for the past hour."

"I know. . ."

"Then why do you keep looking over there?"

"I dunno. I guess I'm just worried."

"If you're so worried about him, put something on him that has GPS."

Gwen stood so suddenly her wheelie stool shot backwards. "Owen, you're a genius."

"I like to think myself that sometimes, yeah."

Gwen, standing, frozen, looked at Owen. He, at the same moment, looked at her. Their eyes met.

"I've got it!" they both cried at the same time.

"We could—"

"Put a tracker on him and see if he can find Jack!" Owen cut her off. Gwen's face immediately puckered with disapproval.

"I will not put him in danger like that!"

"It won't be you doing it."

"Owen!"

"We'll know where he is the entire time!" Owen stood, came to stand directly in front of Gwen. "Do you have any better ideas?" he said in a low voice.

Gwen's eyes bored into his. It became an unblinking skirmish. Owen's nostrils flared; Gwen's eyebrows drew closer together. Owen shifted his weight slowly from foot to foot. Gwen's foot did an almost-stomp. Owen scratched at his head; Gwen's lips fell into a frown. Gwen, pissed, Owen, determined. Neither blinked.

Ianto, from his place at what would be Tosh's work station, smiled to himself. He found the mini power-struggle amusing. Gwen needed sleep and Owen needed coffee. Powerful chemicals — or lack thereof — best not mixed together. One of them would have to back off soon or risk mutual explosion.

Gwen turned away with an indignant huff. Owen immediately pounced at the pile of wires and various gadgets spattered between the work stations.

After a few minutes of noisy clank-searching, Owen turned back to the kid. Gwen grew increasingly fussy; Owen ignored her. He tied the tagged watch around the kid's left arm, securing it so that the only way to get it off would be with a large amount of thrashing. Or high speed impacts. But he didn't think the kid would be doing any of those . . . _hoped_ he wouldn't. He was their last way to find Jack.

He handed a fork to the kid, smiling at what he hoped the little blonde alien would do to Jack.

"You wanna use this on Jack's kneecaps?"

The kid giggled, clapped his hands, beamed. "Yippy cai-yay, muvva fukkuh!" He took the fork from Owen, slowly revolving it in his hands with a look of profound contemplation.

Owen ruffled the kid's hair. "Now you go find Jack, okay? We'll follow you soon's we can."

The kid nodded, smiled.

"Owen! You can't just have him—"

But the kid was already gone. Owen sat in his chair, pulling up a map of Cardiff on the computer screen. A red dot bleeped in the centre of a grey rectangle.

"Where is that?"

"Not far. Get Ianto and a gun. We're going to find Jack.

* * *

"Jack?"

Thin, empty feeling. Too light . . . transparent, limp, no strength to hold his head up.

"Jack?"

Again. Far off. Strangely distant . . . hollow, like _Hello!_ shouted through a tunnel or across a canyon. Unreal. The voice was far, but a mass was close. That didn't seem possible.

"Mate, you can't expect me to _carry_ you."

Only to Jack it sounded like "Kate, you shan't expect me to marry you" and made absolutely no sense. Not much of anything made sense. He didn't feel right . . . he felt _off_. He couldn't place where, why, or _what_ harboured this feeling of off-ness. But the sensation . . . _off_ was the only word that came to mind.

"My name isn't Kate . . . ," he mumbled as he opened his eyes.

"What?"

"Kate. You called me 'Kate'."

"No I didn't. Are you all right?"

Jack pulled a hand downward over his face, trying to clear his eyes. The blurred, liquid-covered filter didn't move very quickly; he could only vaguely make out the shape of Malcolm next to him.

A groggy "What?" was the only thing he managed.

"Not all right, okay. Fantastic. I can't carry you. I'm half your weight."

Jack bent a leg beneath himself with the intention of standing. However, he didn't get much farther than that because his already bad vision doubled, and a dizzyingly paralysing moment of vertigo slammed him backwards against the wall. A grunt passed his lips, the space between his eyebrows lessened. That infamous half-openmouthed grimace crossed his face.

"We need to get out of here."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Couldn't have guessed that myself."

"Stop with the sarcasm! This is a life or death situation. . . ." Jack trailed off as he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

"Well sarcasm is my way of coping."

"I know that, Owen!"

"What?" Malcolm asked, confused.

"What?" Jack asked back, unaware of the slip.

"You just called me Owen."

"No I didn't."

Malcolm sighed, folded his arms. "Not right in the head at all. . . ," he mumbled.

Fifteen minutes later they came to the end of the hall. It took much longer than Jack would have wanted, had he any thought to spare towards time between one point and the next. The walking did some good, though. Circulating blood helped clear his head, and by the time they came to the scuffed door, he could think coherently again.

He slid away from Malcolm. He barely managed to control the swaying, but he managed nonetheless.

"Okay. I'm going to open the door, and you're going to stand to the side of it. If anything comes out, or grabs me, whatever you do, do _not_ follow. Run in the opposite direction as fast as you can."

"But the other direction is a dead end."

"Then go back to the room."

"What if—"

Jack placed his hands on Malcolm's shoulders, looked him in the eyes with earnest solemnity. "Malcolm, just do as I say and you'll live."

As Jack turned back to the door, Malcolm's hand alighted on Jack's shoulder. "You don't have to be heroic, mate. You're already in a bad way. . . ."

Jack smiled. "I'll be fine," and gave Malcolm a gentle nudge away from the door.

Jack grabbed the handle and hesitated. Deciding preliminary investigative techniques were in order, he pressed his ear to the door. No muffled breathing, no ticking of clockwork torture devices. No scratching of clawed feet on the floor. Nothing to suggest something menacing waited on the other side, eager for a meal or a mess.

He twisted it. Pulled the door; it resisted. Jack claimed a double lungful of still air.

"Jack—"

Jack held up a silencing finger. He wiggled the door a little further. It resisted.

Jack knew what would happen when he opened it with full force. He just really, _really_ wanted to avoid doing it. Open that door, lights come on, a timer starts, and then another life is in danger. He would have to rush to save it; stress and adrenalin would race his heart, pump his blood faster. He still had enough anticoagulant in his system that he could bleed to death through the open wounds on his back.

"Jack?"

Jack bowed his head as he jerked the door towards the outer wall.

A cable sang through the air, hit a few spots with a metallic _ping_ and stopped after th. At the halting of sound, lights flashed on and the next game was revealed.

Jack gaped at the person strung up in the middle of the room. With a reluctant caution he walked over in a perfectly straight line. He put his hand on a dirty, pale cheek. Tears itched at the back of his eyes and he allowed the to spill over.

"Tosh."

Her eyes flickered open. A momentary look of bewilderment crossed her face. Then she smiled.

"Jack." Her mouth opened and closed a few times without words. After a short pause, she found her voice again. "It's been . . . forever."

Shame heated a place deep in his chest; the only thing he wanted to do was apologise. "I'm so sorry, Tosh. Forgive me. Please, just forgive me."

Toshiko's lips pulled into a wavering smile. From behind Jack, Malcolm made a noise. Jack ignored it.

"Jack—"

Jack looked over his shoulder. "Not now." He turned back to Tosh.

Now, a black hole the size of a .45 stared between his eyes.

"Game over."

* * *

Gwen's head jerked around. Eyes wide, she stopped and shone her torch down the dim hall.

"Owen, did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Gwen shook her head and faced forward. "Nothing."


	10. 10

**10**

O MY GOD SHE'S ALIVE.

Please don't kill me for my absence. This **is **going to be finished soon. One or two chapters more. You might get a third if you slap me with the inspiration stick. . . .

Don't forget to vote on the poll. I might be closing it soon.

Sorry for the ghetto section breaks, the site won't do those lines that go all the way across.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Owen's head jerked forward, then back again to look at Gwen.

"I definitely heard that."

Gwen jogged past him. "Jack! Jack, can you hear me?"

A door met them at the end of a long straight section.

"Ianto, how far are we from Jack?"

"About a hundred metres," Ianto answered in both their earpieces.

Gwen's jog turned into a full sprint. She stopped abruptly at the door, yanked it open, and dashed forward. Owen barely made it through as the door bounced back. The steel ghosted across his shoulder, threatened to break the skin. Owen wondered at the silent malice of the object.

The doorway led them into another straight hallway. Gwen picked up her sprint again. Owen shook his head and followed at a jog, gun pointed downwards.

He passed a door and noticed it wasn't entirely shut. Holding his gun in front of him, he nudged the door open. An empty bathroom. He turned back to the hall.

As Gwen ran by a second door, something slammed into it with a chest-rattling growl. Gwen yelled in surprise, halting immediately and sliding on the floor; her foot slipped and she almost lost her balance. Owen nearly let off a shot.

Gwen looked at him, chest rising and falling, nostrils flared.

"Let's not open that door," Owen said.

"Yeah." Gwen nodded fervently. "There's a door at the end here."

Gwen reached it first and waited with an impatient, tapping foot until Owen caught up. One hand slowly descended from her gun to the handle. She paused, looked to Owen with wide eyes. He nodded, his own pistol ready.

Another three seconds. Gwen cranked the handle and kicked the door open.

There were two bodies on the floor. One was naked from the waist up and shoe-less, back red with three long gashes from shoulder to hip; the other was fully clothed and lying in a pool of what had to be all the blood in the body. A large exit wound in the back revealed a shattered spinal column and a flash of white scapula.

In the middle stood Toshiko.

Gwen's mouth hung open. "T . . . _Tosh_? You're alive!" She started to walk forward, but Tosh raised the black, blood-spotted pistol in her right hand. Her lips were somewhere between an angry grimace and a maniac smile.

"Tosh?"

Tosh didn't respond. Her lips decided to curve into an unsettling smile.

"Tosh, just put down the gun," Owen said in an attempt to placate her.

"Owen, Owen, Owen," Tosh clucked. "Why should I listen to you?" The pistol gravitated towards the shirtless body.

Gwen's eyes widened; the beginning sounds of protest left her lips too late. Tosh fired another round into the already bloody back of their captain. But another sound mingled with that of the shot: a sniffle. Without moving her head, Gwen scanned the room and saw the kid — wide-eyed and trembling — pressing himself against the corner of the far wall. Gwen prayed to whatever would listen that Tosh paid him no attention.

Tosh stepped over Jack. Owen and Gwen shrank back simultaneously; Toshiko chuckled.

"You fear me." She brought the gun to eye level, turning it over as if to inspect it for flaws. "As you should." Toshiko nodded at their own weapons. "Put them on the floor."

They complied. Gwen held her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Tosh, we can talk about this."

"Talk about _what_, Gwen?"

Gwen's mouth opened and closed silently for a few seconds before she found a strong enough argument. "This. Everything. What happened to you, where you've been all this time—"

"And why none of you came looking for me?"

"We _did_!"

Tosh scoffed. From behind her, Jack gasped back to life. Without looking, she shot him again in the back. Gwen jumped; Owen cringed; the kid whimpered and covered his head with both arms, sinking to the floor.

"No you didn't! I would have known! I could see you! See all of you! What you were doing those two months — Owen, drinking yourself stupid and sleeping with whoever would take you. Gwen . . . you were lying around your flat, pathetically hoping Rhys would come back. He's been dead since we were caught! Weevils killed him. And Ianto, at the hospital. Leg still bad enough he couldn't come help you kill me?"

"Tosh, we didn't come to kill you," Owen said, stepping forward.

Tosh raised the gun at him. Then, she swung it behind her to point at the kid. "Come any closer and I'll shoot him."

Owen backed up with his hands in front of him.

"I set this up. I set everything up. David and Jonas in the church, that _child_ being drawn to the spot. None of you even guessed!"

Gwen saw movement behind Tosh, but kept her eyes away from it.

"Tosh, what do you want? What is killing us going to do?"

Tosh's grin widened. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to put you through all the pain I suffered."

Owen followed Gwen's lead. "You don't have to do this, Tosh."

"But I do!"

"Why?" Gwen asked.

That stopped Tosh. The locked arms pointing the gun at chest-height slackened a bit.

Jack took that moment of hesitation to grab her.

x X x

"Put. Me. _Down_!" Tosh screamed as Jack carried her, wrists held in handcuffs. He had her over one shoulder; she kept kicking his back. He ignored it.

Owen walked in front, leading the way out. Gwen followed a safe distance behind with the kid in her arms. He hadn't lifted his head from her shoulder since she had picked him up. Gwen could still feel tears dampening the fabric of her shirt.

Ianto saw them approaching and stepped out of the car. Jack nodded at the back and Owen went to open it.

"Tosh . . . you're alive!" Ianto said, but kept his distance.

Jack deposited her in the trunk and slammed the door shut. He motioned for the other three to come away from the vehicle so they could talk.

Jack sighed before he began. "I have a theory, and if it's right, she'll be fine in a few days."

"And what would that be?" Owen asked.

"Mind-control. She wouldn't willingly do this."

"No," Gwen said, shaking her head, "she wouldn't."

When they reached the Hub, Jack gave Gwen, Owen, and Ianto time to get down and set things up before he brought Toshiko. She had shouted the entire way; he had watched, concerned this time, as the kid dug further and further into Gwen's chest.

"You should take him somewhere where he won't hear her," Jack had told Gwen when as she climbed out of the SUV. She nodded and said she would take him to the kitchen.

After ten minutes, Jack retrieved Toshiko. She lashed out at him, kicking and biting. His nose narrowly avoided being broken. Putting her over one shoulder with her feet forward prevented her from actually being able to bite him. However, his left hip received quite a few hard blows before he held her feet together with one hand.

"What did he do to you, Tosh," Owen muttered to himself after Jack stepped back from strapping Tosh to the autopsy table. She thrashed against the straps, growling.

Owen looked to Jack. "Should I give her a sedative?"

Jack nodded wordlessly. "Run the usual tox screens and get some fluid in her."

Owen returned the nod and went to work. Jack walked slowly up the stairs to stand between Gwen and Ianto. He put an arm around each of their shoulders.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"Will she be all right." Gwen said it in a flat tone.

Jack paused and pulled in a long breath. "I don't know."

Gwen leaned her head against his shoulder. Jack rubbed her arm consolingly. After a few minutes, Gwen pulled away.

"Try to get some sleep, Gwen."

She waved a hand over her shoulder and picked up the kid, walking for the kitchen. When she reached the cog door, he let out a howl and started sobbing. Jack sighed, leaned on the railing with his hands in front of him. Ianto pulled his eyes away from the scene and went to hunt down a clean shirt for Jack.

"Thank you," Jack said when Ianto handed him the shirt. He slid it on but left it unbuttoned. He was intently watching Tosh. Owen had given her a sedative, relieving the air of the tension brought on by her angry noises.

"Any theories?" Owen called upwards after drawing another phial of blood for testing.

Jack turned his back on the sleeping Tosh and walked to his office. Owen raised an eyebrow, now very confused, at Ianto. Ianto shrugged.

"I don't know everything that goes on in that head of his." He followed Jack's regression.

Owen sighed. "Looks like it's just you an me again."

- - - - - - - --

So many tiny paragraphs XP


	11. 11

Oh god.

That's the only thing I can think to say. I can't believe I haven't worked on this story in almost two years! HOLY CRAP! But it feels good to be writing it again!

Will everyone consent to a healthy bout of make-up sex? I think that's better than profuse apologies. I'll leave my number at the front desk, and make sure you don't call me before noon, because I have other clients I have to see to.

You may need to re-read the whole story to figure out what's going on. I certainly had to (you know it's bad when you don't even recognize your own character). I also had to go watch two Saw movies and rewatch the first season of Torchwood to get in place with the loverly characters of Torchwood.

Onwards and upwards!

* * *

It had only been a few hours since they had brought Toshiko back to the Hub, but she showed a great deal of improvement. Improvement meaning she acted differently. Different in a way that was still rather disturbing. She beat and banged on the walls of her cell. She hurled the water cups at the door and refused to touch the grapes Owen placed inside. She screamed obscenities, cursed all of them — Jack, mostly — and swore half in Japanese, half in English.

Jack and Owen stood watching this on the monitors. Gwen was sprawled on half the couch, the kid sleeping on her torso. Every time her head nodded, about to fall asleep, she snapped it back up and blinked, hard, trying to get the sleep out of her eyes. Ianto was making another batch of coffee.

Ianto hobbled past them, almost tripping when one of his crutches caught on the corner of a workstation. Jack caught him by the arm.

"You'll have to get it yourself," Ianto said apologetically, and then went to sit next to Gwen.

Owen peeled himself away from the screen and trotted for his coffee. He downed it in three sips, poured himself another cup. He sipped this one more slowly and went back to stand next to Jack, bringing the captain's drink. Jack took it without looking away from the screen.

"How was her brain activity?"

Owen swallowed. "Higher than normal. There were parts of her cerebral cortex that are super-active, that should be barely active in the first place. Made her hyperaware and paranoid. Her tox screen showed a foreign unidentifiable substance. It's probably what she was being controlled with." He took another swig of coffee. "If we keep cycling in seventy per cent O2 she should be okay by tomorrow evening."

Jack nodded. Turned away from the monitor, sighed. Walked back to his office and disappeared in the floor. Owen gave a lingering glance at Tosh, miniature on the screen, and returned to the med bay.

From the couch, Gwen yawned. Ianto looked at her sideways. "You should go home."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Don't know how much good it would do." She breathed deeply and allowed her eyes to close. "I feel like I should stay here."

Ianto smiled, weary. "You really don't need to. I'll ring you when Tosh gets better." He gave her a serious look. "I may not be able to do it, but Jack _will_ send you home."

Gwen gave a slight smile. Then it left her lips as a thought occurred to her.

"Ianto, Tosh couldn't have dragged Jack out of here by herself. And . . ." she glanced at Jack, "who or whatever was controlling her is still out there. It got me once, it can do it again." She glanced at the boy in her lap. "I'm not sure it would be safe."

Ianto looked down and sat on the couch. "I'm so tired it never occurred to me." He passed a hand over his face, suppressing a yawn.

"Maybe we should see about those cots."

Ianto gave her a look that absolutely said "you expect me to do _what_, exactly?" Gwen laughed a little. "Well, maybe not."

Jack came out of his office. "It occurred to me that we forgot a little something." He nodded at the kid. "How to get that little something home."

"Where to exactly, Jack?" It came out more tired than annoyed, but Gwen didn't care enough to try pissing him off with a tetchy response.

He paused, frowned. Held up a finger. "Let me get back to you on that," and went back in to his office. Gwen sighed and looked at Ianto.

"What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"Well, can't you. . . do something?" she finished lamely.

Ianto snorted. "I've shagged him, I don't have him on a leash."

"Not yet!" Jack shouted without looking up from something in his hand.

* * *

An hour later a soft hand on her shoulder woke Gwen. Ianto wasn't on the couch and the kid lay in his place, his blonde head pillowed against Gwen's thigh. She followed the hand up the arm, to the shoulder, along the neck, and to the face. Detachedly she noted a cramp in her side and lower back, and at the base of her neck. Jack smiled down at her.

"Bring him in my office for a little bit. I need to check something."

The kid, knowing — as all napping children seem to be half aware of when they sleep — that he was being talked about, lifted his head and blinked at Gwen in a way that made her even more sorry he had seen so much, made her wish just one thing in the plethora of alien artefacts in the Hub could make him feel better and forget. Then she remembered retcon, and it soured the small sweet glint the kid's cuteness lit in her chest. She scooped him against her, setting him on her hip.

Jack told Gwen to sit in his chair, and sit the kid facing forward in her lap. He held something that looked muck like an iPod, only thicker and slightly asymmetrical. It had something like a screen, but there was something off about it that Gwen couldn't quite place or care about. Maybe it was like a cross between an Etch-a-Sketch and a plasma television?

Jack stood before her. "This part," he pointed at the screen, "goes on his forehead. This," he pulled a cord from the side, "goes in his ear." Jack stared at the child for a quite minute, calculating something. "He's probably tired enough that it won't bother him, but I've never used this on a kid before—"

"It better not hurt."

Jack shrugged. "It didn't seem to bother the last guy I used it on. Then again, he was blind and I, well I," Jack laughed and shook his head. "Never mind what I was doing. This won't take long."

He stuck the rounded end of the cord in the kid's ear and held the screen against his forehead. The kid blinked up at him, his mouth opening getting ready to parrot some other insulting nonsense—

"You should never, never doubt what nobody is sure about."

Gwen wasn't sure if he meant it for her or Jack. She glanced at Jack but he only shook his head. The kid snorted and looked ready to fuss, but Jack must have gotten what he needed because he pulled the device away and let the cord snap home to its hidden compartment.

"What does it do?"

Jack already had the thing stowed in a drawer. He bent down and took the kid from Gwen, to her surprise. "Jack, what are you—"

"I'm going to give him back to his parents."

Gwen frowned and followed him as he headed for the stone lift. "How? Who are they? What — Jack, what did that thing do?"

He grinned. "It called them. I'll be right back."

Gwen hopped on the stone next to him. The kid reached out his arms for Gwen, but Jack held him tight to his chest. "Hey little guy, you're gonna stay with me for a bit."

Jack didn't move to activate the lift. "Well, are we going up or not?"

Jack's smiled left. That underlying vein of merriment and kidding around that always seemed to tinge his face left, sunk beneath the surface so far Gwen failed to find it at all. "Say goodbye now, Gwen. You won't be seeing him again."

Gwen swallowed her reply, instead kissing the little boy on the back of the head. She hugged him against Jack's chest and whispered in his ear. "You won't remember it, sweetie. The monsters go away."

He smiled and pinched her nose. Gwen smiled and playfully swatted his hand away. "You behave now. Don't go teleporting away from your mum and dad again."

He waved to her as the lift rose up and out of sight. Gwen sighed and returned to the couch. She sat there for a bit before sighing again, standing, and going to her desk. The computer screens were all cracked and dead. She rolled her chair over to the working monitors and ignored the video feed of Toshiko and pulled up an internet page. The computer clock read 0:36. Gwen looked around and wondered where Ianto had gotten to.

"'e's in the kitchen," Owen said from behind her. Gwen gave a little start and he chuckled. "You've been out for a few hours. Where's Jack?"

Gwen hiccupped and realized tears were stinging her eyes and prickling the back of her throat. "He took the kid home."

Owen seemed surprised. "Found his parents?"

Gwen let out a long, loud breath. "Yeah."

Both turned their heads to look at Jack as the lift descended into the Hub. He looked even more sullen than when Gwen had first seen him two days ago. God, had it only been two days?

"Are we rid of The Rude One's presence?"

Jack only nodded. He sat on the couch and took his coat off. Owen waited a few seconds before wandering back to his autopsy theatre. Jack scanned the Hub, then abruptly shot off the couch. "Where's Ianto?"

Gwen looked around knowing she wouldn't spot the Welshman in the Hub if Jack hadn't managed to, then felt compelled to look back at the monitor displaying Toshiko's cell. She sighed and smiled in relief. "Relax, Jack, he's just down to see Tosh."

Jack came over and glanced at the screen before dashing for the stairs.

"Jack! She's locked up, what can she do?"

He stopped to look up at her from the first step. "I don't know, but I don't want to take any chances."

Gwen growled in frustration. "Owen, come on."

"What do you need me for?!"

She poked her head over the railing. "Because I said so."

He scowled. Gwen noticed he hadn't been playing with one of the morgue bodies like she had expected. A half-set-up game of solitaire waited to be finished on one of the stainless steel trays.

* * *

Ianto looked up at Jack when he came in. Tosh sat in the farthest corner from them, her back against the wall and her face hidden in her knees. Jack, not wanting to be cruel, had tossed in a few pillows and a better-than-standard-issue blanket. The blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders, but the pillows still sat on the floor where he dumped them.

"I thought she was dead."

Jack stood with his shoulder touching Ianto's. Ianto leaned against him, grateful to take the weight off his elbows and leg.

"I thought maybe you'd been snatched again."

Ianto snorted and a tiny smile lifted his lips. "Bit jumpy, sir?"

Gwen and Owen came in. Owen cross, Gwen somewhere between confused and disappointed. "We all right then?"

Jack nodded and returned his eyes to Toshiko. If she heard them at all, she didn't seem to notice or want to talk back.

"Owen, what were the last readings?" Jack said without looking away.

"'Bout halfway normal. Do you want me to keep her under light sedation, or taper it off?"

"I'd say taper it off, but you did that already."

Owen crooked a smile. "Well, based on the progress of her detox, and the inverse relationship between neurotransmitter capacity and sedative ratio—"

Jack laughed. "You've been working here too long, Owen."

Owen rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

Toshiko's head snapped up and the blanket fell from her shoulders. Suddenly she stood at the glass, her hands up on either side of the air holes. She moved so fast Gwen barely saw it. Without realising it, Gwen had backed into the wall. They all had, except Jack. He stepped towards the glass.

"Toshiko? Tosh, do you know where you are?"

"In the cells," she said without inflection or expression. She stared ahead, not quite at any of them, not quite at the wall or anything beyond it. Gwen glanced at Owen, but he shook his head, eyes wide. She looked to Ianto, but his wide eyes flicked between Jack and Tosh. Gwen saw his braced leg tremble.

"Ianto, maybe you should sit down," Gwen whispered out the side of her mouth, not wanting to draw Tosh's attention. Ianto shook his head once and then looked at Jack.

Jack looked at them over his shoulder.

Tosh threw her head back and laughed shrieked. Gwen's hands flew to cover her ears; she imagined this is what a dying banshee must sound like. Owen and Ianto did the same. Jack's head jerked from side to side as if he had just finished a particularly strong drink.

Her mouth snapped shut and her head rocked forward. Her chin hit her chest.

Owen lowered his hands from his ears. "Jack?"

Jack shook his head. Didn't say anything. Kept looking at Tosh. Threw a brief look at the three of them. Tosh banged on the glass, once, with two fists, made them all jump and stand a little closer together.

"Owen, is this because you stopped the sedative?"

Owen vigorously shook his head. "No. No, it was just a mild sedative. The effects wouldn't be this violent."

Her fists hit the glass again. Her eyes rolled upwards, all whites. Jack reached to draw his gun and then remembered he took it off hours ago. He dropped his hands to the sides and backed up to stand against the wall with the three saner members of his team. The lights flickered and Gwen flinched. Jack put an arm around her shoulder and held a finger up to his mouth. Above, distant, Myfanwy cawed, not in alarm but in a way that said she wanted some attention. Poor thing probably hadn't been let out in a few days, needed to stretch her wings.

Tosh hadn't made any noise, but her eyes were still rolled up. The lights cut out and Gwen screamed, but they came on a second later.

"Bloody fucking hell—" Owen began, but stopped and pointed at the cell, his mouth hanging open. He didn't point at Tosh, though. He pointed at Janet. The weevil lay curled in on itself in the middle of the concrete floor, moaning. None of them moved. No one felt compelled to do anything except stand there like scared deer, trying to avoid some more inexplicable shit happening that shattered their feeling of invincibility, that they were untouchable, that _this wasn't supposed to happen to them_.

Tosh hit the glass once. Her eyes had returned to their original position. The strange blank look from before left her face to be replaced by a dry hybrid of anger and confusion.

"Could you let me out now?"

* * *

I'm afraid it's a bit on the short side for now, but it's Easter, so plot bunnies are in great abundance!

P.s. I finished this at 1am and was getting close to falling asleep in my keyboard. I apologize for typos.


	12. 12

I had an idea that would keep this story going for a few more chapters/maybe make it into a sequel to Asylum, so that it's like a trilogy (because to me the first three Saw movies are in their own right a trilogy, and everything else that came after is just franchising). The only problem with a third story is that it's a) been a really long time since I watched Torchwood, b) the first and second seasons aired quite a while ago, and c) I like to pretend the third season didn't happen

HAHAHAHAHA It's been so long since I updated I'm not even going to apologize. I don't mean it in a douche-y way, I just mean that I feel it's like saying "sorry" after you kick a puppy :/

* * *

Jack came up to the glass and stood in front of Tosh. "Not after that I can't."

Tosh, not being the rolling-eye type, sighed. She sat on the hard concrete bench and looked at them with the same look she gave Owen when he asked a silly question about computers, the one that was annoyed but still held pity for his technological ignorance. "Then can I have another blanket?"

A smile crept across Jack's face. Tentative relief.

"You damn near gave me a heart attack, Tosh!" Owen swore briefly, then left the room.

"Owen, where are you going?" Jack asked.

Owen spun around, very obviously annoyed. "To run another scan. If that's all right with you, boss?" He didn't wait for an answer.

Three sets of eyes turned to Tosh. A mild expression settled on her face. Boredom looked to be creeping up on her.

"Well this is a bit awkward," Ianto put in.

Thank you Captain Obvious. Gwen wanted to say it but refrained, instead walking up to the glass and smiling at Tosh. "It's good to have you back . . . all of you, normal-like." Gwen glanced to the side, feeling every inch of the awkward Ianto had so kindly pointed out.

Jack didn't quite know whether to laugh hysterically or cry just as hysterically. "I need something from my office."

Gwen and Ianto both watched him leave. Neither really wanted to stay; both felt guilty just leaving Tosh alone in the bare cells. Ianto, ever clever with is job title, clapped his hands together and said a quick "I should go make some coffee" before following Jack. Gwen gave Tosh a wide-eyed look and stuffed her hands in her pockets, trying very, very hard not to succumb to the intense levels of awkwardness.

"Soooo. . . Seen any good films lately?"

Tosh laughed, short but not unreal. "You don't have to wait on me, Gwen. Do . . . could you maybe bring me a computer? Or a book? I just need something to do other than sit here."

"Yeah, I'll bring something right down." Gwen smiled at her and Tosh returned it, not as tentative this time.

* * *

Jack stared at the box. He wanted to open it but he didn't at the same time, even though he was tucked away in his sub-floor hidey hole bedchamber. Team members still around, anyone could just poke their head in and ask him a question. So he stuffed it back under a pile of old clothes and climbed up to his office.

Ianto almost started when Jack suddenly ascended from the floor, but he caught himself. "Coffee's ready, sir."

Jack managed a tired smile. "Thanks Ianto. Now go sit down and rest," he said with a pointed finger. Ianto smiled.

"Right away, sir."

Jack was granted an infinitesimal moment of silence before Owen shouted for him across the Hub.

"You know, there are these little things I got for you guys, they go on your ears and they act just like a phone," Jack said as he strode into the medical bay where Owen was staring at the wall display of Tosh's brain.

Owen immediately launched into a non-stop explanation. Projected onto the wall were too three dimensional images of Toshiko's brain, one taken upon her first arrival, and one from a few minutes ago. "See, at first it just looked like a simple neurochemical imbalance. If you look here in the motor cortex you can see that most of the receptors are enlarged. They were blocked at some point by a chemical, but a chemical that had a _physical impact_ on the physiological structure of her neuropathways."

"Is that how she was being controlled?"

"Partially." Owen grabbed a laser pointer pen to indicate the parts of the brain he was talking about. "There were also dark spots, millimetres wide, in her frontal lobe. I thought maybe they were minor lesions of necrosed tissue, from the chemical what fucked with the receptors, but when you zoom in. . . ." He returned to the computer and magnified the image. Jack's mouth dropped open a little bit and he moved closer to the screen.

"Are those what I think they are?"

"If you think they're microscopic nanobot radio transmitter thingies, then yeah."

"And that's what was controlling her?"

Owen nodded. "Most likely."

Jack turned back to the screen. "How do we get rid of them?"

Owen sighed, and zoomed the image out again. "That's a bit of a problem. We can't just cut her open to excise them, they're too small and too deeply embedded into the tissue." He held up a finger. "But we don't need to. It seems that whatever or whoever was controlling Tosh is also what powered these nasty little buggers. We can take more scans in a few hours, but it looks like they have a similar molecular composition to the chemical that fucked with 'er receptors."

"So what, they're just going to disintegrate?"

Owen froze the scans and put the projector to sleep. "Looks like it. She's fine to be let out."

Jack nodded and drew a loud breath. "Okay. I'll bring her upstairs. Maybe she can tell us what grabbed her."

Tosh took a seat on the couch. Jack sat next to her, while Gwen and Ianto brought desk chairs over. Owen opted to lean against the wall.

"I came in and the Hub was a mess. There was a tape with my name on it, and a tape player. It told me not to contact authorities or you would all suffer."

_The rules of the game are simple. You cooperate and your team lives. If you contact any authorities, I will ensure they suffer to the death. Live or die, Toshiko. Make their tape had explained things perfectly logically; the situation it explained seemed unreal. And this was Torchwood. What they did could hardly be classified as real._

"I remember thinking about the tape when someone grabbed me from behind."

_Something clamped around her mouth and she gasped by instinct, but with each breath she became more and more light headed. Her mind frenzied: who the hell was this? Why was this happening? The team . . . something about the team . . . She tried to turn around and see who held a chloroformed rag to her mouth, but blackness overtook her and the room disappeared._

"I don't remember what happened during the time I was unconscious." She looked over to Jack. "Could we put the kettle on? I could _really_ use some tea."

Once everyone was resettled with steaming mugs, Toshiko resumed her story.

"When I woke up I was in that hallway and started wandering around."

_Tosh awoke with the feeling that a considerable amount of time had passed. Her back and neck ached, and she could not identify if her rump was attached, or even present. This all could be attributed to the fact that she sat against a wall, with her head nearly resting on her left shoulder. There was a pressure on her thighs, and upon looking down, her laptop came into view. Her hands rested to either side of her, unbound and unharmed; her legs, too, were completely free. Coupled with the presence of her laptop, the situation puzzled her. Here she was, propped against a wall, free of restraint with her laptop resting on her legs. From the feel of things, she had been here for a substantial stretch of breath, unconscious. Putting her computer adjacent to the wall, Toshiko struggled to her feet. She stumbled as the blood rushed to her extremities, and finally noted her surroundings._

_The wall she had been against appeared to be the end of a corridor, dirty, poorly lit. Pipes hugged the walls at waist height, some missing and others continuing out of site a hundred meters ahead. The corridor smelled of stale water with a vague accent of brackish stagnation._

"Then I ran into the weevil."

_Toshiko felt so on edge that she believed something would jump her at any moment; it would have been an expectation and a simultaneous shock. The fact that the one thing she had with which to defend herself was her laptop did nothing to make her feel in control of the situation. If she did happen upon anything, she hoped it wouldn't want or need to kill her. _

_As more time elapsed, Tosh grew more uneasy. She knew something was going to present itself soon, and her mind refused to accept that. Plausible deniability. Which is why, when she heard a faint hissing, her mind rammed the sound into the dusty recesses of thought, and shoved forward a notion that it was simply her pants brushing against each other. This trick of the mind is not, however, unable to make physical beings vanish._

_Toshiko slowed as she neared a corner, shuffling around it with her laptop hugged protectively to her chest._

_But she still startled when she saw the weevil._

_It was staring at her, head tilting from side to side, upper lip drawing over its top teeth occasionally. It hissed quietly, shifting constantly, sometimes forward, other times back. It growled and started forward._

_"Oh no you don't," Tosh whispered vehemence turned the warning to a hiss in its own respect._

_"I'm sick of being knocked out and waking up in dark places with no explanation! It's bad enough not knowing where in the hell you are, but to come across a weevil? What else is down here, what other alien life? Whoever it is that set this up is going to have hell to pay, I can guarantee you that!"_

_The weevil canted its head to the left, bemused. Toshiko ignored it and kept on with her rant._

_"Ever since that incident in the countryside, I've known. Someone's been watching us," she scoffed, laughing slightly, "Just waiting for the opportune moment to snatch us all! Look how easy it was for bloody villagers!"_

_Whatever part of the weevil made decisions decided this female was not worth listening to. It started forward with confidence, sure of its intent._

_Toshiko tensed, raising her laptop. The weevil was feet away when she swung it forward, yelling at the top of her lungs._

"And that's when you found me."

_Eventually, she backed the weevil into a corner. Bleeding from the mouth and one eye, it huddled there, moaning as Toshiko continued to pound it with her laptop._

_"Bloody," _crack_, "Filthy," _snap_, "Good for nothing," _wap_, "Alien scum!"_

_So intent was she on pulverizing that weevil Toshiko did not notice the surprised gasp behind her, and when something touched her shoulder she screamed. Gluing the laptop to her chest, she scuttled away from whatever had touched her._

_"Tosh, it's just us!"_

_"Stay back!" She brandished the bloodied —and slightly dented— laptop at him. Jack smiled, trying to encourage some form of sanity to return._

_"Tosh, you're fine, it's dead now."_

"You all know the rest." She looked around the group and settled her gaze somewhere above their heads and sipped her tea.

Owen leaned forward. "What happened after you went behind that wall."

Toshiko didn't look him directly in the eye, but she at least looked in his general direction. "There was another trap. More weevils. Someone was down there with them, and he died because I didn't pay attention to the rules."

Jack squeezed her shoulder while she drained the rest of her tea.

"There was another man there who helped me out of the pit. He said something about the game and rules. I only remember bits and pieces after that. I remember setting up more games, and shooting Jack, and being brought back here." Her gaze dropped to her lap. "And now we're here."

No one spoke. Cups met lips and then went back to laps. Eyes avoided each other but after a few minutes Gwen looked to Jack expecting him to have some sort of answer.

"Jack?"

He looked over at Gwen, then at Tosh, then shook his head and stood.

"Let me get back to you on that."

Gwen tracked Jack's movements to his office, where he closed the door. She looked at Ianto like he knew anything more than she did, but he just shook his head.

"He hasn't told me anything if that's what you're wondering."

"Well, you know him best, why don't you go _ask_ him?"

"Gwen, I think he wants to be alone right now."

Gwen pouted and crossed her arms but didn't say anything else.

Owen stood and rubbed his hands together. "Right. Who wants Jubilee's?"

* * *

Jack looked up through the round hole in the ceiling of his sleeping quarters. He wanted to tell his team he knew what had taken them, felt obligated to tell them the truth. Knew he didn't want to tell them because it wouldn't make sense and would only further shake their faith in the world.

He looked at the box and thought about opening it. I need a Doctor, he thought, before stuffing it back into its hiding place.

A knock sounded on the door to his office. Jack climbed the ladder and opened the door, expecting to see Gwen demanding something. Instead Owen stood there with a box of pizza in one hand, Jack's gun in the other.

"You left this in the SUV," he handed Jack the pistol, "and there's more of this in the conference room."

"Jack, you better come get some food!" Gwen shouted around a mouthful of pizza.

Jack reattached the gun to his belt and followed Owen into the conference room. As he took his seat at the head of the table, he thought about how it would devastate his team to know their lives had been ruined by just another twisted human being.

* * *

**And that is the end**.

P.s. I forgot to thank **deemama66** and **zaziness**! Your reviews prompted me in to writing this story again!

As of this moment I probably won't write more Torchwood fanfiction unless there is a huge adrenaline rush in the fandom or the show . . . . But if you really enjoy my stories or would like to take a look at some of my original work, just send me a private message and we can have a little chat.

Thanks for reading! Now go have fun doing whatever it is that makes you happy~


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